


Keeper 2: Hook, Line and Sinker

by HepG2



Series: Keeper [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom Steve Rogers, Drama, Emotional Baggage, Established Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, For Want of a Nail, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Investigations, M/M, Organized Crime, Plotty, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Trauma, Secret Identity, Sex Toys, Steve Rogers Feels, Sub Tony Stark, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark-centric, Tortured Steve Rogers, Triggers, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 80
Words: 80,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HepG2/pseuds/HepG2
Summary: Love cannot make a home where lies and secrets sleep."You went through all that, for him. And you just can't stop, can you, Steve?"Love... cannot erase the past, and the pain."I'll do it. I'll do it for you. But who are you doing this for? Me, or Barnes?"This is investigative journalist Tony Stark at the Bee's service. Work's great, he's in a steady-ish, long-distant relationship with Special Agent Steve Rogers. Life's as good as it gets. But, a self-instigated assignment on James "Bucky" Barnes hurls him headfirst into a world of control and manipulations. Where he walks between order and chaos, he keeps Steve close in his thoughts and prayers - lest he loses himself.May love guide them home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, people! How're you doing? Welcome back to the "Keeper"-verse, and I'm excited to be working on this again. We're in for another cyclone of everything that we've sampled in "Keeper", but haven't fully explored. Questions raised in Part 1 will be answered here. I hope I won't disappoint :) If you're new to the "Keeper"-verse, warm welcome as well! Make yourself comfortable. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Remember how it’s like “to return”? To come back home.  Home being… home’s a lot more complicated than “the place where one lives permanently”. Thank you, Google, and choke on that. Home goes _beyond_ , it's so much more and Tony Stark is one lucky asshole to understand what that means. 

 

Home is just someplace people belong. Money can’t buy one. It’s got to be found. To some, earned. To him, it popped up when he least expected.

 

Tony takes a deep breath and savours the lemony fragrant of dishwasher and Dettol. The floor’s been vacuumed and mopped, the laundry folded and kept, and there’s lunch on the table. The curtains are drawn back to welcome the sun.

 

The beer. Where’s the freaking beer…

 

Home is somebody who hold him in their thoughts and prayers.

 

Home is also currently stuck in the notorious L.A. jam.

 

“I thought I’m gonna beat the jam if I got out of the house an hour earlier.”

 

“Clearly an hour isn’t enough.” Tony wedges his phone between his cheek and shoulder as he wipes the kitchen counter. “Don’t worry. I can reheat lunch when you get here.”

 

“It’s never been an issue the past month. I’ll be late. I’m so sorry.”

 

“I was gonna say don’t be, but Tony the Generous is away for the week, so how about you do the dishes and make the bed until Sunday?”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

“That was me going easy on you. Be grateful. Now that we’ve sorted out our domestic responsibilities,” Tony accidentally knocks a bottle of ketchup over the stove. “Uh, do you need me to provide you entertainment as we while away the time?”

 

“I don’t know, honking to the synth in ‘The Final Countdown’ is plenty entertaining.”

 

“Oh? More entertaining than _my_ kind of entertainment?”

 

“… Tony, I’m driving. Save that for tonight.”

 

Precious, precious, Steve. Tony laughs as he rinses his cloth under the tap. “I mean, do you want me to keep talking to you, or d’you prefer to hang up? But I like how you’re thinking.”

 

He hears Steve groan over the phone, and he laughs some more.

 

Fifteen minutes later, the traffic has unentangled itself so that’s the extent of their conversation. It’ll be another four hours for Steve to get here, so Tony has some time to busy himself with –

 

“Damn.”

 

Hiking his shirt up and biting the hem to keep it in place, he turns to his left and right as he stares at his reflection in the vanity mirror. The bruises have lightened a shade, barely, but they ache enough that he winces as he prods the ugliest of the bunch.

 

He can’t let Steve see him like this.

 

Ignoring the fact that he’s willfully forgotten to mention his encounter with Barnes…

 

Tony slathers analgesic cream over his stomach. It has a sterile scent that’s bound to raise questions – can’t have that too – so it’s got to be washed off, _after_ he’s done some napping. Napping sounds good. He spent most of last week on a caffeine binge because, Fury. Man worked his people like buffaloes. He was all over Tony for the corrections on his draft, which in hindsight had helped him take his mind off missing Steve and being pissed at Barnes.

 

Napping is good. He’ll be counting forty winks, just a quick one.

 

Then, Steve will be home.

 

* * *

 

Tony blinks and sits up and bites back a swear when he realises the sitting room has darkened.

 

But it’s only two p.m. It’s dark because the curtain is drawn to a close, and the door – Steve’s bedroom door is ajar. There’s a rustling from within and Tony does the first thing that comes to mind – he grabs a folded plastic chair from the kitchen and tiptoes to it.

 

Son of a bitch –

 

Tony raises his chair to chest level and kicks the door wide open, it slams against the wall –

 

“Hands where I can see them!”

 

“Jesus Christ, Tony!”

 

Tony meets Steve’s blue eyes from across the bedroom. He’s crouching on the floor by his bed unpacking his duffel bag, and he’s also raised both arms when Tony barged in with his chair and a battle cry.

 

“What the…” Tony lowers his IKEA-battering-ram against the wall. “When did you get back?”

 

“A while ago. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

 

Then, Special Agent Steve Rogers is standing right in front of him, close enough for Tony to smell the car’s PVC on him.

 

“Welcome back,” Tony stifles a yawn. “You know, we haven’t seen each other in two weeks, and this is _not_ how I picture it to be.”

 

“I guess you wanted to wait for me at the gate?” Steve reaches out for Tony’s elbows. “Tell me you have lunch served, that you missed me?”

 

Steve leans in. There’s something else lacing his breath. Something fruity.

 

“I was gonna braid my hair and put on an apron, too.”

 

“Come here.”

 

Their lips touch, and Tony grins.

 

It’s been so goddam long.

 

“Lemony,” Tony frowns as he smacks his lips. Steve is still holding Tony close by his waist. “Oh, no, no… I accidentally left the floor detergent on the table. I wanted to transfer some into a smaller bottle… please tell me you didn’t drink it.”

 

“… No, I didn’t.”

 

“Great, ‘cause I’m still too sleepy to drive you to A and E.”

 

Steve perks up. “I got something for you.” And he takes Tony by the hand and drags him to the kitchen. There’s a jar of hard candies on the counter beside Tony’s bottle of detergent.

 

“A colleague made this with his daughter. There’s perhaps five different colours in here, but I swear they’re all lemon-flavoured.” Tony takes a seat and props his chin on his knuckles, yawning again as Steve talks about his work and Agent Dad-and-daughter-duo, and wondering if he should pop his homemade pizza into the microwave for a bit.

 

Between that and sitting here with Steve – who still hasn’t released Tony’s hand since he’s taken it?

 

Tony sighs, and Steve stops yapping.

 

“I’ve missed you, Steve.”

 

Lunch can wait a little longer.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony reels Steve in again – what’s the sense in stopping at one kiss? Steve ups the ante with why-stop-here? They make out by the kitchen island, once against the fridge, another by the counter, and they only stop because Tony’s grappling almost turned the gas stove on by accident.

 

But really, it’s because Steve has snuck his hand under Tony’s shirt and is making its way up, pulling the fabric along as he goes.

 

“I would love to continue this,” Tony assures Steve breathlessly, “ _after_ you showered.” Steve looks crestfallen. “Honestly? You smell like five-hour-on-the-road.”

 

Steve gives Tony a shrewd look, the kind that either means what-are-you-hiding, or –

 

“Permission, Tony?”

 

And he promptly slips sideways to push Steve towards the bathroom. “No. We’re not doing that. Just go and wash up.”

 

“It’s been two weeks.”

 

“Yeah, and you’re not a teenager.”

 

Steve rarely does petulance but half a year of hanging out with him has taken a toll on Steve's virtues. Steve thrusts his hip into Tony’s butt before he finally hauls ass to the bathroom. 

 

Once Tony hears the water running, he quickly brings a wet cloth under his shirt and wipes away residual cream from his torso. He’s thinking fast – which is problematic since all his blood is pooling around his downstairs brain – what could he do, essentially, to have Steve bone him without noticing the blue-and-black carpeting his front?

 

“Tony?” Steve calls from the shower. “We’re running low on shampoo.”

 

“I’ll pick some up next week.”

 

Well, he could buy himself some time until he figures out how to have his Steve and eat it, too.

 

Which means, by the time Steve saunters into the kitchen, there’s a toasty pizza on the table, a huge serving of garden salad in a mixing bowl and two beers. Tony standing beside the spread with his arms stretched out, grinning look-what-I’ve-accomplished! just takes the biscuit.

 

“Ta-da!”

 

Steve nods appreciatively. “Take out?”

 

“Give me some credit.”

 

They take their lunch in the sitting room because quoting Steve, “Here’s more comfortable when we get down to business,” and Tony stops him right there by shoving salad into his mouth. A polished pizza tray and salad bowl later, they sit in the couch like a couple of beached whales, nursing their beer and staring at the TV set that neither bothered to turn on.

 

“How’s work?” Tony burps generously.

 

“Progress is good. There’s more travelling these days, but I’m still mostly tagging along units. What about you?” Steve taps him lightly in the shoulders. “Been busy?”

 

“Ah, where should I start?”

 

“You can start with how you learn to bake a pizza without burning the crust like you normally do.”

 

“… You can thank Gordon Ramsay for that. My book is going online next week.”

 

“Oh?” Steve cocks his chin up. “Can I read it?” 

 

“I’ll send you my copy.”

 

“It’ll be weird, won’t it, reading about myself?”

 

“Prick.”

 

“We should celebrate that. I mean, I know it’s not new to you – getting published – but I think… a book is really something.” Steve smile grows and his eyes crinkle. “Maybe a proper dinner at someplace nice?”

 

“If you’re tired of eating my home-cooked food…”

 

It’s also worth noting that Steve is _really_ affectionate this afternoon. Any given day this would be out-of-character, but Tony’s own dick is screaming behind two layers of clothes so that makes them both kind of perverted? Justifiably so, but –  

 

“Steve, really,” Tony feigns a whine as Steve noses his cheek.

 

“I’m fed, watered and showered for the occasion. What else are we waiting for?”

 

Steve’s hand is again under his shirt, roaming the expanse of his chest. “I dunno, night time?”

 

“Two weeks, Tony. Don’t tell me you don’t want it?” Steve smirks knowingly when he suddenly cups Tony between his thighs.

 

“Well, yeah, two weeks, Steve. I’ve not prepared myself for sex.”

 

The number of times he’s taken Steve where it hurts can be counted with his left hand, and as much as he wants the gratification that comes _after_ the effort… he’d rather mow the lawn or something.

 

“I haven’t washed up,” he pushes Steve away with his beer bottle, “so I don’t want you in there, and I know that look, Special Agent.” He pecks Steve lightly by the temple. There’s a fleeting predatorial gaze in the way Steve watch Tony’s throat bob as he speaks. “You’re gonna break me, and I’ve got some travelling of my own to do next week.”

 

Steve’s not giving up. He nibbles at an earlobe, his hot breath ghosting the skin. “Travelling? For work?”

 

The business card that Barnes forced into his pocket comes suddenly into mind. “Yeah. For work.” The tip of Steve’s tongue skates along his neck, and he swings his leg over to sit right in Steve’s lap. “There’ll be a lot less pent-up sexual desires if you come home more often.”

 

When Steve looks away, Tony bites the inside of his cheek in shame.

 

Guilt-tripping just isn’t cool.

 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to put it that way.”

 

“I tried, Tony. I waited for a chance to apply for a transfer, but they’re short on field agents and my one-and-a-half-month tenure isn’t helping the case –”

 

“I know. I understand. We can look at it another way.” Tony extracts Steve’s beer from his bear grip and settles it on the coffee table. He grinds his hip into Steve’s, and devours Steve’s groans at the friction. “I can go up sometime. I mean, your dorm allows visitors, I hope?”

 

“… Yeah.” He won’t stop humping Steve.

 

“See? We’ll make this work.”

 

He slides down to pool around Steve’s feet on the floor. Cheekily he winks as he picks at the pants’ drawstring.

 

Steve nudges Tony’s ankle with his toe. “I thought you’re not ready for this?”

 

“I can’t handle you inside me, but I can do other stuff.” He pulls out Steve’s more-than-ready erection and gives it a loving caress along the length. “I don’t know if this is going to work. I can’t actually, you know, practice when you’re away.”

 

Steve laughs and shields his eyes with the back of his palm.

 

Thank you for the vote of confidence right there.

 

Tony closes his lips over the cock, and he claims his revenge with a hearty suck and a daring lick across the slit.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony’s _kind of_ kidding about not having practiced giving a blowjob. He’s gone through his notes and lectures religiously, but he skims off practical classes because, duh. It’s the next best thing by prompting the Internet with “best oral sex tips”. He’s currently perusing step number two and it says, “gently ram the tip of the dick into the roof of his mouth”. Supposedly it’ll feel like deep-throating. In hindsight – and Tony entertains his hindsight as he’s doing exactly what the Internet suggests him to, angling Steve’s cock until it’s swabbing his cheek and roof of his mouth – why hasn’t he taken any damn notes when he’s on the receiving end of a mind-blowingly awesome blowjob?

 

There aren’t many opportunities in his thirty-six years of living, so maybe that’s why. Can’t fault him either for zoning out whenever Steve goes down on him because who the heck would have extra brain space when they’re preoccupied with something more urgent – like, coming?

 

Steve runs his hand through Tony’s hair, gently massaging the scalp as Tony resurfaces. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls back completely.

 

“Like that?”

 

Steve hums and smiles. “I’m inclined to give you a better grade.”

 

“Thank you.” He cups Steve around the base and gives it several lazy tugs, extricating a deep, long sigh of equal part need and frustration, and those blue eyes disappear behind heavy lids. Steve’s hand in his hair tightens that it stings somewhat, and the couch squeaks where his fingers have dug into.

 

In any case, Steve looks like he’s ready to pounce on Tony and take whatever he needs.

 

Knowing that it’s his untrained mouth that’s messing Steve up like this, his own cock jerks in his pants. Swallowing Steve again, his free hand dips into his briefs and –

 

“Tony… you’re killing me.”

 

He own cries of pleasure are muffled. His mouth is gagged so completely, his tongue pressed down by the sheer girth of Steve, and damn, it’s quite difficult multitasking between _not_ giving himself over and servicing Steve.

 

Steve suddenly clamps his thighs shut so they bop Tony at his shoulders. “OK, enough. Let me.”

 

Tony extracts himself from the floor. He gets up to teeter on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of Steve. He pulls his pants free.

 

He spreads his leg and carves out the most devilish grin he can muster.

 

“No, don’t come here,” Tony quickly holds Steve in place by stepping on Steve’s knees, pinning him to the couch. “Jerk yourself.”

 

Steve looks like he’s about to protest, the words about to spill from his lips. A muscle in his jawline tick, and obediently he takes his cock in his hand and pumps.

 

Tony mirrors his movements in rhythm and speed. He feels blue eyes burning through his forehead.

 

“How different is this from Skype, Tony?”

 

“Why, what more do you want?”

 

Again, Steve presses his lips to a thin line and drops his gaze.

 

“Oh, crap –”

 

The coffee table creaks under Tony’s little tremors as he spews his load over his thighs and the small surface of the furniture he’s sitting on. In between sipping air through what feels like a straw, he notices Steve’s gone stone still, and he wills himself to look up.

 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to finish first.”

 

“... Come here a bit?”

 

Dripping semen all over the floor be damned.

 

Steve takes him by the wrist and pulls him downward – a tender coax – until Tony’s seated next to him in the couch again. And he really does pounce on Tony this time, easily bracketing Tony under his warm and wide expanse of his chest.

 

Steve continues working on his cock, his rapid breathing harsh in Tony’s ears. Their skins – slick with sweat – glide over one another, and Tony can’t help capturing Steve in a kiss that lasts too long, too hard. Steve’s free hand is on him again, exploring the dips between his ribs and the sharp angles of his hip. Touches that are rougher than he’s comfortable with press headily into his diaphragm – Tony lurches, a short stabbing pain radiates across his body. He almost misses Steve’s whispering of his name.

 

And his chin collides with Steve’s shoulder as Steve ejaculates over them both, God has he been saving or what?

 

“… I’ve missed you, too.”

 

Steve falls sideways and retakes the seat he’s vacated not too long ago. They sit like that for a while, watching the ceiling fan go round and round until Steve must’ve decided it’s hypnotic enough that he dozes off before their bodily fluids can even dry off.

 

As Tony sponge-bathes Steve there and then in the sitting hall, he makes himself a deal.

 

Honesty is obviously the best policy…

 

With terms and conditions applied!

 

So, here it is. What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Think of the bigger picture. There’s nothing Steve or the ATF can do about Barnes and his mafia-take on the Merry Man. There’s no evidence, no _issue_ save for the fact that Barnes whooped his ass half a week ago in the back alley.

 

And don’t get him started about the business card. It’s a bit folded and smudged after all the contemplative bending and twisting he’d subjected the card to with his fingers.

 

He feels like there’s no going back once he walks through this door.

 

Hypothetically speaking, it’s more advantageous for him to take up Barnes’ invitation. It’s the only way to make a case and bring something to the ATF’s table.

 

There’ll also be hell to pay, and Steve is _guaranteed_ to scream bloody murder after this blows over, but look, that’s a price worth paying, isn’t it?

 

Steve stirs as Tony wipes his neck with the cooling sponge. “Hey,” he eventually croaks. “Dinner time?”

 

“… Hungry already? We just had lunch.”

 

“What’s the time?”

 

“Still early. You’re done for the day, OK? Go to bed –”

 

Steve grabs Tony’s hand and stills him. “I drove five hours to see you, Tony. I’m not gonna go to bed at –” he glances up at the clock, “four fifty. Sun’s still up. What do you want to do? Take a walk in the park?”

 

Another distraction, then. Just what he needs.

 

“Want to pay Maria a visit? We haven’t seen her since the event.”


	4. Chapter 4

And the domesticity continues.

 

Tony waits in the car as Steve picks up a bottle of shampoo from the mart – the one further down the block because despite a salary raise, _somebody_ is still unwilling to fork out the extra one fifty for that freaking shampoo.

 

“But it’s a one-way drive,” Tony protests, “I’ll have to make another turn around the block.”

 

“Then stop at the corner by that bin. I’ll walk, and you don’t have to make that turn –”

 

“Steve, _it’s raining_. And I just vacuumed my car.”

 

That’s how Tony finds himself parked in front of Steve’s favourite mart, drumming the steering wheel and counting the number of times the wiper crosses his view.

 

It _is_ the great deluge. Not an empty spot in the sky, just clouds, grey and pregnant. Raindrops the size of goose eggs splatter all over his windshield, rendering his view a fantastic blur of colours. He can barely make out the traffic light, or the cat huddled under a crate, or Barnes at the bus stop in some poncho and a cap –

 

“Shit –”

 

Tony unlocks his car and makes a mad dash to across the road. He’s soaked to the bones in four steps. He wipes rain from his lashes and swirls around where he stands.

 

There is no one at the bus stop.

 

But, he was _so_ sure.

 

Then, the rain inexplicably stops. An arm wraps over his shoulders, pulling him into a strong-muscled chest. Steve sheltering them both with an umbrella – that’s what it is after he sorts out the confusion.

 

“What are you doing? Are you OK?”

 

Barnes was just _right there_.

 

“I thought I saw something.”

 

Steve follows Tony’s line of sight and squints. “What, the bus stop? There’s no one there.”

 

Making a detour home for shower would set them back at least half an hour, and Maria is closing in forty-five. So, Steve takes over the driving while Tony tries his best to stay out of the air-conditioning and keep his teeth still and not-chattering, _and_ haphazardly formulating some fairy tale for the inevitable what-did-you-think-you-see-just-now?

 

Only, the other shoe never drops. Not even when Steve pulls the car up in N & N’s porch and Maria beckoning them in while giving him the obligatory stink-eye as he shuffles past her. Weirdly enough, she too doesn’t ask what’d happened. The only indication of her noticing his cosplaying a dripping wet sponge is when she pulls out a fluffy towel from the locker and throws it at his face.

 

“Are you ever gonna sell these stuff?” Tony points at the basket of plastic dildos as he dries his hair. “They’ve been on discount since forever.”

 

“How’s work, Steve?” Maria pulls a chair out and purposely angles her back against Tony. “Haven’t seen you since then. You didn’t even call.”

 

“Sorry, I meant to drop by and thank you personally. I guess this is long overdue.”

  
“Thank me for what?”

 

“… For everything.”

 

All right, Tony understands “exclusivity”. It’s Maria’s favourite rule. Whenever Steve’s around he’s immediately thin air, and the only reason she’ll give him a second of damn is when Steve tries to coax him into their conversation. No, thank you, he rather goes window shopping, aisle strolling in this magnificent dungeon of… sex toys and body cages. Very nice.

 

He pulls a box of anal beads from the shelf, his nose itches, he _sneezes,_ the box slips from his grip, it crashes satisfyingly on the floor, Maria _swears_ …

 

“OK, you,” her heels click menacingly as she stalks towards him. “You break it, you buy it.”

 

He sneezes again.

 

“Follow me.”

 

When Steve sees Tony tailing Maria into the seminar room, all he does is raise a brow. Tony mouths “Save me!”, and to nobody’s surprise, Steve shrugs and shakes his head.

 

Right. Being in N & N always makes him feel like a five-year-old. People talking over him, people blatantly ignoring him, objectifying him –

 

“Strip. I’ve got some dry clothes lying around here somewhere…”

 

“… Uh, come again?”

 

Maria pulls open a drawer. “If you stay in those any longer , you’ll get pneumonia and frankly, I don’t really care.” She extracts something that has a hoodie – a jacket? – and a pair of sweatpants. “But, Steve will be upset, and if he’s upset, I’m upset, so get changed.”

 

Tony pulls his drenched T-shirt off and drops it on the floor. A pathetic slop.

 

“Steve, Steve, Steve. Here I am thinking you and I were friends –”

 

“What happened to you?”

 

“… Oh. Oh, oh – no, hey, hands off, Maria, where are you _touching_ –” Maria’s hand is as cold as ice, and she’s poking at the darkest bruise just under his breast. He quickly catches her by the wrist. “Lady, seriously.”

 

“Who did this? Does Steve know?”

 

“No one important did this, and no, Steve doesn’t know.”

 

“… Each time he turns his head elsewhere, you get into trouble.”

 

“I know. It’s my fault. Not really, but if that’s what you wanna hear, I’ll say it. Steve doesn’t need to know about this.”

 

It’s unnerving, the way Maria stares right into his eyes, like she’s rigorously searching every nook and cranny of his soul. He feels even more naked than he already is.

 

“You contacted them. The people who took Steve.”

 

“Maria…”

 

“Your business is your own, and it’s none of mine how you conduct it. I just hope we won’t have to collect your body parts in bits and pieces.”

 

“… It would be nicer if you phrase your ‘good luck’ in a less morbid way, but, thanks. I guess.”

 

“You saved Steve.”

 

And that’s all she says before she walks out the door, leaving it open that Steve’s voice carries into the seminar room as they resume their conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

“How’s your business doing? It usually improves after the event.”

 

There are three mugs of steaming tea on the counter now, Tony notices from where he stands by the door of the seminar room.

 

“It was a huge turnout that evening. We had to turn away several groups – walk-ins aren’t allowed anymore – so we could’ve had a bigger crowd. At the board meeting two weeks before – in between planning – we were very optimistic about our projected revenue. Perhaps _too_ optimistic. We didn’t hit our targets.” Maria sips tea from her black mug, and Steve from his own white one. So, that leaves him with the ridiculous sippy cup – no, of course it’s not a sippy cup, it’s a proper mug looking about as macho as it gets when it’s coloured flamingo pink. “Silver lining is, the number of new membership for the club soared. Sales of our flagship products are tanking though. I’m not sure if it’s the pricing or something else…”

 

Tony scoots closer to stand next to Steve. He takes the pink, untouched mug and brings it to his lips.

 

“I’ve been thinking about doing an advertisement of sorts. See if that’ll help promote the goods. Stark over there just agreed to do some product reviews for N & N.”

 

Tony chokes on his first gulp of tea.

 

“Did I?” he wheezes, putting his mug down so hard that tea sloshes and spills all over the counter top.

 

“Yes. Didn’t you just _agree_ to it?”

 

“… Yes, I did.” Tony turns to Steve and grins tightly. “It’s all rather _sudden_ ,” he turns back to Maria, making sure to pronounce every damn syllable, “but yeah, why not? I’ll do anything for N & N to clear those stupid dildos from your shelves once and for all.”

 

“That’s very considerate of you,” Steve begins slowly, and Tony feels like pounding his forehead against the wall repeatedly. “Your work schedule is getting pretty intense, isn’t it? You sure you can spare more time on this?”

 

And Tony beams triumphantly. “That’s a fantastic point you brought up there, Steve. I happen to be quite busy with –”

 

“You only have to review three of our flagship products, and whatever you work with, you keep. That’s several thousand dollars’ worth of equipment there.”

 

“ _What_? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Money’s money, baby. “I mean, I would _love_ to wax lyrical about your products, Maria.”

 

She tips her mug upward to hide her snickering. “I’ll make sure you get our most… interesting items to work with.”

 

“I expect nothing less.”

 

“Tony,” Steve taps his on his elbow. “You sure you want to do this? You’re reviewing sex toys.”

 

“… Yeah, so?”

 

“You never give me the impression that you’re thrilled about toys.” Are they seriously having this conversation within earshot of Maria effing Hill? “Besides, what are you going to do with them after the review?”

 

“They’re worth a couple of grand, Steve.”

 

“… You can’t sell them on eBay as second-hands.”

 

“… I’ll think of something. Salvage parts and sell the rest for scrap or something.”

 

And on that note, they end their visit. Tony stows the bag of wet clothes in the back seat and replays in his head the promises he’d – foolishly? – made. On top of reviewing three products of her choice, he’s somehow responsible for recommending an avenue to advertise said reviews. How did this become his problem, he protested, and quoting Maria’s deadpanned comeback, “Can’t just put up buntings and banners along the Interstate about cock rings and anal plugs, can I?”

 

It did come across as weird – at first – until Tony realises that Maria meant to piggyback on his connection with publication houses already familiar with the BDSM community. N & N would’ve secured an audience with the right types of potential customers. It’s just good business.

 

It’s eight p.m. and still raining cats and dogs. Their car idles at the traffic light and Steve wipes condensation on his window.

 

“I don’t want to scare you, but Maria’s selection of toys can get pretty creepy.”

 

“I have you. You’re the one with all the experience. Use ‘em on me, I rate ‘em, I write my review, done deal.”

 

“Another thing to look forward to every Saturday, then.”

 

If only Tony could get his spent cock to twitch at Steve’s suggestive purr.

 

“Speaking of Saturday, can you open the glove compartment – yeah, that envelope.”

 

“… It’s a wedding invitation?”

 

“Remember Pepper? We bumped into her at McDonald’s that one time…”

 

“I remember her. I remember there’s a wedding soon. _This_ soon?”

 

“Time flies, what can I say. Can you free up your Saturday – well technically, it’s a Sunday event, after church service. But we have to fly to New York for that, so maybe take a leave on Monday so we don’t have to rush for a Sunday evening flight?”

 

“I’ll see what I can do, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

Then it’s home again with just the two of them, and the rest of Saturday night to spare. And what do they do with it? Steve watches Nat Geo on TV while Tony huddles close on his left, reading “The Selfish Gene” that he’s plucked from Steve’s bookcase. They don’t speak a word save for a quick debate on which of them should brew another pot of tea. Obviously neither have intention to sleep that night because after tea, Tony makes them coffee, but no mid-thirties man can stay up till four in the morning and make that five-hour drive back to L.A. without risking nodding off at the wheels. So, when Steve leans in too heavily against Tony, his snores tickling Tony's earlobe, it’s over.

 

It’s another one-week wait to be together again.

 

“Steve, don’t sleep here.” Tony shakes Steve by his shoulder. Steve slings his arm across Tony’s stomach and pulls him closer, hugging him like a bolster. “OK… you have a long drive ahead of you. Get some proper rest –”

 

“… Don’t go.” Steve’s fist curls around Tony’s shirt.

 

Looks like nobody’s going anywhere at this rate.


	6. Chapter 6

“Safe drive, Steve.”

 

“I’ll call you when I’ve reached.”

 

Tony sets the duffel bag in the trunk and slams it shut. Steve already has one hand on the door, and damn, it’s not a sight to behold. “You’ll be flying from L.A. right? Do you want me to buy the tickets for you?”

 

“It’s fine, I’ll buy it myself. And you’re departing from?”

 

“Here. Guess I’ll see you in New York, then?”

 

“… Take care.”

 

“Always.”

 

It’s still somewhat difficult to leave the sidewalk long after the back of Steve’s car’s disappeared from the horizon. Guess it never gets easier? After making sure Steve’s house is all locked down, he traipses to his own car and starts the engine.

 

Maria’s chore has been a niggling nag in the back of his head since breakfast. He wanted to get out of N & N’s basement so fast he forgot to collect his toys from her. Then again, if they’re important enough, she’ll call him again, right?

 

And, there it is – Tony sighs as he scrolls down on his phone – Maria’s message. It’s all very polite, a short reminder that she’ll FedEx the first toy to Steve’s home address. The fact that the SMS is lacking a couple of exclamation marks and cusses makes it scarier.

 

But, that’s not what Tony checks his phone for. He sets Fury’s number as the recipient and types:

 

_Nick, the owner of N & N wants me to write a series of product reviews. What do you think about hosting them on your company websites and e-books?_

Don’t say he didn’t try to help.

 

And boy, isn’t he mighty glad that he chooses to read Fury’s reply after he’s parked with the handbrake up.

 

_Talk to me again next month. I’m trying to acquire Stane’s Publishing House. There’s a delay with your book’s ISBN application. Next month, OK?_

Stane’s Publishing House? Isn’t that…?

 

Tony pulls out the name cards again and shuffles through it until he finds Stane among the stack. It’s _Obadiah_ Stane’s, the one and only.

 

A cursory check on the Internet tells him that not only has the company been put up for sale, Stane has recently declared himself bankrupt. How did things spiral out of control so quickly?

 

Screw Barnes, next one on his hitlist is Stane.

 

Turns out, it isn’t so easy getting him to stay on the line for more than five seconds.

 

“Mr Stane? It’s Tony Stark from Sacramento Bee – hello?”

 

Shit. He dials the number again.

 

“Mr Stane, don’t hang up – hear me out, please.”

 

“What more do you want from me, Stark?” The rough edge in Stane’s voice is startling, to put it meekly. A far cry from the smarmy and persuasive businessman Tony remembers him as.

 

“I need to ask you a few questions about – about the _incident_.”

 

“… Take your questions and fuck yourself with them. Don’t _ever_ call me again.”

 

“No, wait! Please!” There’s a drawn-out silence and Tony pulls the phone from his ears. The line is still intact. “Uh, hello?”

 

“… I lost my company, and my family because of you, Stark. Because you _lied_ to the police. I pray that retribution find you swiftly.”

 

“That _isn’t_ a fair accusation –”

 

Stane barks callously in his ears. “Right. You wanna talk to me about fairness.”

 

“I was drugged and assaulted in some alley, and in both cases, _your name_ pops up. You tell me what I’m supposed to do with that information.”

 

“… What assault? They never said anything about an assault.”

 

Tony can almost hear the pin drop. An inexplicable chill creep up his spine. There’s something unusual about this, but he can’t quite put his finger on.

 

“I need to talk to you. Face to face, please.”

 

“So you can drug yourself and blame me for it, and buy yourself fifteen minutes of fame? No, fuck you.”

 

“No, I need to talk to you about Barnes.”

 

“… No. I can’t help you.”

 

That’s it. That disturbing pause that precedes no-screw-it-you’re-on-your-own, that screams out loud Stane’s hiding something.

 

“A man’s life is at stake. Please. Just a few questions. Somewhere safe?”

 

Tony crosses his fingers and toes and his appendix if he could manage it, and Stane replies, “The coffee house, tomorrow at six.”

 

The line gets cut, and Tony sits in his car in stupor for one whole minute.

 

It’s been a while since the attack in the alley, but he remembers his parting gift. The photographs of Steve. The cacophonous admission “love from Obadiah Stane” – he remembers it verbatim, down to the minutest shift in pitch as they rain punches and kicks over him before slapping him silly with the envelope of… Steve’s nightmare.

 

Stane sounded like he didn’t know about the incident at all.

 

Or, he could be a damn good faker, Tony’s not discrediting that possibility.

 

Somewhere within this web of confusion lies a thread that links Stane to Barnes and the organisation. He just has to figure out _how_ , even if it means revisiting the eerie coffee house with the knowledge that this time, there’s no Steve and Sam Wilson to the rescue in case shit hits the fan.

 

Six o’clock sharp the next day, Tony finds himself tucked away in a corner table. It’s uncannily familiar. The general brownness of the interior décor now feels rusted and gloomy, no longer exuding class that he once associated it with. He folds his forearms over the table and waits. The guests lounging by the bar are as immaculately dressed as before. There’s a couple of security guards by the door. When he just entered, Ms Wu, the matron of the coffee house greeted him with a bright smile as he penned his name down in the guestbook.

 

There is still unease in the familiarity, and Tony wishes not to stay in this place a second longer than necessary.

 

A shadow looms before him, and he looks up.

 

“Stark.”

 

Tony rises to his feet. “Mr Stane. Thank you for coming.”


	7. Chapter 7

Stane does not look good. His hair is unkempt, he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow and rings under his eyes. There’s a perpetual slump in his shoulders that weighs his profile down. Even Tony’s starting to feel sympathy for the man until Stane raps the table with his knuckle and says, “Fifteen minutes. What do you want to know?”

 

“Are you OK? You don’t look… how about a glass of water?”

 

“… Right. If you’re here to take the mickey –”

 

“No, sorry, I don’t mean to – I’m genuinely concerned, all right? If you need assistance –”

 

“Guilt finally preying on you, huh? Are you here to offer me – what, money? An apology? Guess it didn’t work out in the end. Didn’t propel small time journalist Anthony Stark to instant stardom, yeah?”

 

“… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“What do you take me for, an idiot? A scandal, that’s what you wanted. And it worked! You got the cops involved, and they got my family and company involved – questions, so many questions for my clients. You ruined my reputation, and it’s over, Stark. My _life_ is over!”

 

That _really_ isn’t a fair accusation. Didn’t Steve say Stane have priors? He brought it unto himself, one way or another.

 

“You’re saying it wasn’t you who drugged my drink?”

 

“Oh, still playing the game, are we?”

 

He should switch gear. Stane looks close to clocking him good in the face.

 

“What can you tell me about the attack near Oakmont Street, in the alley between the community clinic and 7-11, September the second?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“The attackers explicitly mentioned your name. ‘Love from Obadiah Stane’. Sure you know nothing about that?”

 

Stane’s beady eyes snap up to meet Tony’s. “Is this another sick ploy to – haven’t I lost enough?”

 

“I’m not playing games with you,” Tony hisses impatiently. “Look at this.” He slaps a printout of photographs on the table. Steve’s face has been mosaiced, and everything else rendered black and white. Yet, the depravity of the scenes is still as stark as day.

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“Do you recognise any person in these photos?”

 

“God, no. No – how did you get this?”

 

“The people in the alley? They said these photos are a gift from _you_.”

 

“It’s not me. It’s not.”

 

Tony shoves the printouts back into his bag. “Do you know James Buchanan Barnes?

 

”Sorry, I can’t help you.”

 

It’s frustrating when answers aren’t a clear-cut yes or no.

 

“So, you don’t deny that you know him.”

 

“You’re asking the wrong question, and the wrong person. I don’t – fifteen minutes is up. Good evening.”

 

Stane shoves his chair back and he gets up. It scrapes resoundingly against the polished floor that heads – too many of them – turn to look at them curiously. Tony promptly brings his hand to his forehead to scratch at an imaginary itch.

 

“Dad?”

 

A young man has joined their midst. Trim and well-groomed, he wears a slight frown on his face. Hasn’t Tony met him before? He stands easily next to Stane and rests an arm over his shoulder. There’s grace and kindness in the touch, and… did he call Stane “Dad”?

 

Tony _does_ know this man.

 

“ _Zeke_?”

 

Ezekiel’s grey eyes slip sideways to regard Tony, and a look of recognition dawns on him. Frankly, Tony’s downright astonished they could recognise each other outside of chains and gags while having actual clothes on.

 

“Tony? _You’re_ the reporter?” There’s a tinge of disdain in the way Ezekiel’s enunciate his words. Shame. Tony thought they had something like a comradery going on then, having been feasted upon by their respective Doms before the eyes of many. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Ezekiel, let’s go, it’s late,” Stane tugs lightly at his son’s elbow. “Your mother will worry.”

 

“A minute, Dad. If this is the guy who’s been causing you grief, I can’t stand aside and do nothing. Look, Tony,” Ezekiel stands more firmly before Stane. “You seem reasonable. Whatever… _history_ that you and my father had, let’s call it water under the bridge? We pretend it never happened. Is money what you’re after?” Ezekiel reaches inside his jacket for a _chequebook_. “How much –”

 

“If you continue talking, Zeke, I swear, I will punch you right here in front of dear Pop.”

 

“We don’t want any trouble, Tony. We can settle this amicably…”

 

Whatever nonsense that Ezekiel is spouting, it washes over Tony like suds on wax. Seriously, _what_ the hell is going on? First, Old Man Stane goes paranoid that _Tony_ is out to get him, that small fry journalist Tony Stark has set up this ludicrous trap that costs Stane everything he holds dear, and now _poof!_ out comes Stane Junior propagating that same drivel.

 

And when Ezekiel slips the cheque into Tony’s breast pocket, he loses it.

 

“Hey, cool it down, gentlemen.”

 

A substantial weight presses down on his right shoulder and Tony forgoes throwing that punch he’s promised Ezekiel. Great, now they’ve gotten the in-house bouncer involved –

 

“Bucky, long time. How are you?”

 

“Zeke, Obie. Drinks are on the house for you, as usual.”

 

That deep, gruff voice. Tony’s heart leaps to this throat, yet he dares not address him.

 

The arm that’s still stubbornly slung over his shoulders pins him into Bucky’s – God help him, _Barnes’_ – chest.

 

He’s trapped.

 

“Not tonight. I’m here to pick Dad up, it’s getting a bit late.” Ezekiel nods in Tony’s general direction, and he steers Stane away from the table. Fantastic timing. Tony's got what he came here for. He should go. He should -

 

“Well, Stark.” Bucky’s fingernails dig into his bicep, through all the layers of clothes. “What a coincidence. Let’s have a chat someplace quiet. Someplace _private_. Come on.”

 

And Bucky steers _him_ away to an alcove beside the bar, which leads into an unoccupied hallway. As they walk deeper into the bowel of the coffee house, the chatters die out, and Tony swallows thickly.

 

“In here.”

 

As in, through this unmarked, plain, wrought-iron door?

 

Well, fuck.


	8. Chapter 8

When the door closes with a curt click, it’s as if his whole person’s been dunked underwater. Noiseless. Motionless. Just him and Barnes in what looks like a store room. There are shelves stocked to the brim with ingredients, lining each of the four white-washed walls. Tony turns around but finds himself nose to nose with Barnes.

 

“… OK, I need to use the bathroom, so –”

 

Barnes takes a step forward. It’s bold and with purpose, and Tony backs up. In three steps his back hits a shelf and then _only_ does Barnes stop. His eyes are cold and grey in the light – tinged brown, almost like Tony’s.

 

“You got some nerves, meeting up with Stane here, of all places.”

 

“Free country.”

 

“… Not quite.”

 

Barnes takes another half a step forward, and his thigh slips between Tony’s. That sets off all kinds of danger alarm in his head – he’s shitting himself silly – and he tries to shove Barnes away from him. _Tries_ to, to no avail. When Barnes leans in, Tony turns his head aside so quickly he thinks he’s sprained his neck, when he glimpses upon the CCTV installed right in front of the door.

 

Hah!

 

“Back off, we don’t have to this the hard way.”

 

“The hard way being reporting my…” Barnes runs his hand along Tony’s side, “taking advantage of you?”

 

“Hands _off_ –”

 

“It’s _precisely_ because of the camera, Stark.”

 

“ _What_?”  

 

Barnes shuts him up with a searing kiss. He tastes smidgens of blood as his front teeth tear into his upper lip – and Barnes takes him like a vulture. Voracious and clumsy, the more he fights, the tighter Barnes holds onto him. He’s pinned to the stupid shelf like a donkey’s tail, and no matter how he flails, how he slaps baskets of ginger and onions over Barnes’ head and back, he won’t let up.

 

His grip on the front of Barnes’ shirt slips.

 

And he’s released.

 

“Asshole,” Tony cups his split lips and heaves for air. “What do you want?”

 

“Nothing, actually. I didn’t expect to see you here, not in a million years anyway. You’re either very brave, or thick.” A finger slides along Tony’s cheek. “So, I thought I’d come over and say hello. Manners maketh a man, after all?”

 

Tony pulls away from Barnes – a mistake. Any overt challenge on Barnes’ self-imposed authority is met with aggression, and thick arms snake around his waist. Hands – large, strong – grope boldly at his buttocks, and Tony flinches so hard he smashes backward again into the shelf, and into the wall. So much racket that echoes within the room, _please_ let it be heard by someone – _anyone_ –  

 

“I’m a bit disappointed that you haven’t called. For the record, the offer still stands.”

 

He leans in again, and parks his mouth under Tony’s earlobe – and he _bites_ , heartily, that Tony can’t hold back a surprised yelp. His knee jerks up, catching Barnes square in his groin – God, he should’ve done that in the beginning.

 

He tears away and rushes to door – then down the hallway. He cuts through the throng of befuddled bystanders, and he doesn’t stop until he stumbles into the front yard of the coffee house.

 

* * *

 

“Steve?”

 

“Hey, Tony. Nice timing. I just got back. Are you home yourself?”

 

“… Yeah.”

 

“Yours, or are you camping out in mine again? At this rate, you should seriously reconsider the moving-in proposition. My place is closer to your office anyway.”

 

“Sounds like too much fuss. Nope.”

 

“You don’t usually call me on Mondays. What’s up? The photocopier got jammed again? Or is it the coffee machine this time?”

 

“… Both?”

 

And at this exact moment, a timber truck honked. It’s all Tony hears for the next couple of seconds – it’s ridiculous, somebody should ban that thing on the basis of noise pollution alone, whatever. And when Steve doesn’t speak after things calmed down a little, Tony knows he’s been caught.

 

He’s not at home. He’s parked by the road, half-way between the coffee house and his own place. Steve’s is closer to be sure – Steve’s place is centrally located anyway, it’s close to a lot of places. Maybe he _will_ crash there for the night instead. That’s a plan. That’s the _best_ plan he’s had the entire day. And he’ll make that three-point-turn into the general direction of Steve’s neighbourhood once he’s regained full command of his knees and fingers.

 

“Where are you, Tony?”

 

“… Sorry. I don’t want to worry you.”

 

“Where are you?” Steve repeats, slower, but with an unmistaken tinge of urgency.

 

“I’m in my car. I’m fine. I just… need to catch a breather.”

 

“… Did something happen?”

 

“No.” And Steve doesn’t say anything to that, which means, Steve calls bullshit on that one. “I met up with a friend,” that’s Stane Senior and Junior taken care of, “had some semblance of dinner, ‘cause I can’t really afford the menu. It’s the catching up that matters. Bumped into another friend, what are the odds? And we, uh,” Tony closes his eyes and rests his forehead on his steering wheel. “We spoke about stuff. About us? As in, you and me. See? Normal stuff.”

 

“… It’s OK if you’re still not… comfortable, with the idea of, you know, telling your friends about us.”

 

“… What d’you mean?”

 

“I know how difficult it was for you to come out. As much as it means to me, I don’t mind keeping our relationship under wraps.”

 

God help him.

 

Steve grabs that ball of misunderstanding-grievous-issue-in-hand and runs away with it. He runs _very far away_ with it. He does all the talking from that point onward, perhaps thinking that it’ll help take Tony’s mind off the incident.

 

Perhaps, this is enough. Tony finds himself not making sense of Steve’s retelling of his colleague’s daughter plucking out her milk tooth with her bare hands. He finds solace still, in Steve’s sparse chuckle and – he imagines – animated hand gestures that go along with the tale.

 

“Feeling better?” Steve finally asks after a while.

 

“I wish you were here, Steve.”

 

“… Me too.”


	9. Chapter 9

It’s Thursday, and it’s still too early.

 

Tony’s been seating in one position for far too long. He twitches a little, sits straighter in his chair – rallying his shoulders and the wheels to creak ominously in-sync. And he squints at his work table, tries to freaking _think._ A colleague – maybe Rhodey? – had drawn the blinds to a close. They shield his cubicle from the first ray of the sun. He doesn’t bother with switching his study lamp on – what for? Everything he’s spread on his table he’s already committed to memory.

 

Barnes’ call card, Maria’s thumb drive that catalogues the vids from that abhorred N & N event, and a DVD that he’s burnt Steve’s photographs into.

 

To call, or not to call?

 

Three days after that chance meeting with Barnes, Tony still can’t put it behind him. What did Barnes say? That the offer still stands?

 

Even if he does take up that offer, what is he supposed to do with it? He doubts he could just waltz into the coffee house – or wherever Barnes operate from these days – and ask for evidences that’ll put every asshole on the organisation’s payroll in jail.

 

Ah… he’s not _that_ suicidal.

 

Tony slips the name card under his keyboard – anymore twirling and the ink on the card _will_ fade off. He picks up Maria’s thumb drive instead. His heart races as he remembers what plays after the five-minute mark on the vid that was recorded upon Steve’s return to N & N. The second helping, he calls it. Yep, assholes, the bunch of them.

 

Makes him want to punch a hole through his desktop monitor. He groans in frustration when he finds his coffee mug empty. He should go get a refill… too much hassle. So, yawning as big as he can – isn’t oxygen a good substitute for caffeine? – he replays his conversation with Maria for the umpteenth time. The one about Steve, because that lady is only ever civil with him when _Steve’s_ in the picture –

 

Didn’t she say a couple of them were made scapegoats by the organisation?

 

Tony mentally clutches that string of thought like a vice. His eyes narrowed in the dimness.

 

The man who knifed Steve towards the end of the show. That man is still in prison, isn’t he?

 

Wielding the date of the incident and a half-baked mugshot of that SOB, Tony scours the Bee’s extensive catalogue of news report for anything and everything dated back to 2012. Maybe this is the next best thing? Maybe, the Bee did cover that incident, and that would be his breadcrumb leading to –

 

“Milos Masaryk,” Tony mouths the name that’s mentioned only once in this little-known article, page eighteen on the Bee’s weekend edition. He might be wrong about Masaryk. There’s no reference of Steve or N & N. “Causing grievous injury to another guest… two-inch butterfly knife… private event hosted in the basement of a… hah.”

 

Neither Maria nor N & N is mentioned, but it’s the right street address.

 

Locating Masaryk on the DOJ’s database is a _cakewalk_.

 

By the time Tony pulls up in the prison’s front yard, he has forty-five minutes left before visiting hour is over. And that’s fine. He’ll make damn sure every second count. And out comes one Milos Masaryk through the door, a warden shadowing him from behind. Tony picks up the connecting phone and slaps his journalist ID against the glass partition.

 

“I’m Tony Stark from Sacramento Bee.”

 

Masaryk glances at Tony’s tag. “You’re a reporter?”

 

“I am. I’ve a few questions about a private event that took place near four years ago in N & N’s basement. Where you – shall I say – gutted Lieutenant Steve Rogers and gotten yourself fifteen in jail?”

 

“… I told the cops everything I know four years ago. The story hasn’t changed.”

 

“I want to know who’s in charge.”

 

“… Look, I gutted that cop, it was a mistake, and now I’m serving my time. There’s nothing else to discuss.”

 

“That’s not my question, Milos.” Masaryk promptly looks away. Prison has taken a toll on him. A man who doesn’t respond well to his own given name, what gives? “Who’s in charge? You wouldn’t gut a cop for no reason. Nobody would. I saw the vid. None of you were active participants. It was just Barnes and Rogers on the centre stage.”

 

At the mere mention of Barnes, Masaryk’s fingers curl tighter around the phone. He’s still glaring holes at the table, refusing to acknowledge Tony and his questions.

  
“It’s Barnes, isn’t it? He’s the ringleader.” He sees the bright red button on Masaryk. Push it? Push it or not? “It’s Barnes whom I should be talking to on this phone. Why are you sitting in that chair, Milos?”

 

“I’m doing fifteen because I’m loyal to my family. And look how they repay me?” Masaryk laughs, bitter and hollow.

 

Bullseye.

 

“Tell me what you know about Barnes, Milos.”

 

“That bastard was about to call the cops on us. The knife just came out, and I wasn’t sure what happened. Rogers’ blood was suddenly all over me. When they put me in lock-up, they told me he’d make it, and I was charged with ‘intent to cause grievous bodily harm’. But, I was OK with that. I told myself, it was to protect my family.”

 

“Did Barnes come to visit?”

 

“Yeah,” Milos chuckles again. “Once? I asked him if he was gonna hire a lawyer, or post a bail. Something. Know what he told me? He said it was good of me to do what I did, that it threw the police off their back. And _that was it._ ”

 

“… You’re angry.”

 

“You’re my first visitor in five years,” he glances at the tag that Tony's left dangling by the glass partition. “Anthony Stark. I say I’d given them enough.”

 

“I’ve questions about Barnes and the organisation. If I ask you about drug manufacturing and distribution, and their association with underground BDSM conventions, what will you be able to tell me?”

 

The tip of Masaryk’s lip curves with horrible glee. “Everything.”


	10. Chapter 10

They say, the higher the expectation, the larger the disappointment.

 

Tony rubs at his eyes before pulling out of the parking spot. It’s dinner time and he’s half the mind of stopping by the drive thru for a Big Mac, and lie to Steve about having a wholesome quinoa salad instead. One more lie won’t hurt, right? Especially one as innocuous as a freaking quinoa salad.

 

At the traffic light, he pulls up the handbrake and resists pulling out hair from his scalp, as tempting as it is.

 

To be sure, Masaryk is a lowly lackey. It’s obvious. Anyone more prominent, he wouldn’t be just doing fifteen behind bars, it’d be something more _permanent._ Still, information is information, and he’s hard-pressed for some, and when Masaryk said he could tell him anything he wanted to know, boy was he elated. Masaryk _did_ hold up the end of his bargain. But what he knew wasn’t what Tony wanted to know. And that kind of economic arrangement sucks.

 

The lights turn green and he continues driving. He’s going slightly above the speed limit, but… fuck it.

 

Everybody in this county answers to Bucky. “Bucky.” That’s what Barnes go by in the organisation. Plain ol’ Bucky. Rolls off the tongue easier, Tony guesses. How it would break Steve’s heart if he knows a name of endearment is now the name of a ruthless mobster. The background story is, Barnes was decommissioned after the Kosovo tour, couldn’t adjust to a life without mortar and grenades, and decided to go back to one. Not back to Kosovo. Not to Iraq, or Palestine.

 

“He met up with the county’s chief one night at the bar, and next thing we know, he’s our newest initiate.”

 

Barnes was something else. Maybe because the War did something to him? Unhinged him to the liking of said county’s chief? Or maybe it was his rugged handsomeness. He climbed the bad guy-equivalent of a corporate ladder at an astonishing rate, and by his second year, he was just one step away from joining the inner circle of the family.

 

“This... gang? It’s our family. We look after each other, and we are many.”

 

They stick to a hierarchy so fiercely, that whoever’s on top gets all the say. Nobody can have an opinion.

 

“You wanna know how Barnes carve his way into the inner circle?”

 

Tony wished he’d said no.

 

Some dude – Tony likes to think of him as a middle manager of a weed-trafficking company – stole cash from the organisation’s emergency account. It involved a neat phishing software, and because it was the _emergency account_ – something people don’t always keep a tab on unless they’re in deep shit – the siphoning wasn’t discovered until the end of the year when they usually do account editing and statement generations.

 

“That’s pretty sophisticated for a ragtag gangster group.”

 

“Underestimating their reach is the FBI’s undoing. Don’t make the same mistake.”

 

What happened to the embezzler? The punishment was swift. They met at the coffee house – it was closed for the night – and they told him, if he could walk himself from the bar to the door, he’d be a free man.

 

They never told him they’d be raining machetes on him.

 

“Like a mad dog, Barnes’ lopped his head off. Took him a few tries…”

 

“… Are you bullshitting me, Milos? Doesn’t sound like the kind of stuff lower-ranked members are allowed in.”

 

“Damn right. You expect the top dogs to clean up after themselves? I was lurking in the hallway with a fucking mop, man. And I ate nothing but carrots and lettuces for a week. Still couldn’t stomach baked beans.”

 

Having successfully proven his worth – good God – Barnes was duly inducted into the family itself.

 

“So, like an adopted son or something?”

 

“No. Nobody’s actually related to anybody. Personally, I think they call themselves like that ‘cause it sounds cool.”

 

“OK. So, what does he get as a member of the family?”

 

Barnes was made in-charge of the entire county. And that was just on the first day at work, two years ago.

 

“He’s ferocious. He never stopped.”

 

Under Barnes’, the family grew. Exponentially, in the beginning, that he tried currying favours with Father himself –

 

“Father?”

 

“Yeah. The boss.”

 

Things plateaued off by the next year, but by then, Barnes’ name was already carved in stone. Nobody dared to dethrone him, and though he didn’t involve himself much in decision-making processes, he was present in all meetings. From time to time, people still go to him for advices.

 

“He’s got this other reputation… this… mood? You know? If a ‘project’ interests him, he’ll have opinions. If it bores him, better pray he’s at least not in the mood for decapitation or something. You know what strikes me as weird? He never claimed credit for those shit. And I’ve heard about family backstabbing family over the sale of an extra bag of weed.”

 

Speaking about weed…

 

“We just call ‘em weed. Simple like that. They took in disgraced scientists and chemists, desperate students from the universities and paid them money to create designer drugs. Rumour has it that these stuff are a lot more potent than your everyday street-level crap, it makes ‘em high like a bunny in heat, and they won’t remember a thing after it’s over.”

 

“Yeah, they’re call date-rape drugs, Milos.”

 

“They don’t show up on tests. It’s like the drug never happened. Maybe they do something more, I don’t know, never took it. Shit cost a bomb, and they don’t give it to us for free.”

 

Which is why they peddle it among guests in private clubs?

 

“Yeah. Their need for sex is as deep as their wallet. Everything’s aligned. Everybody’s satisfied.”

 

“Is the organisation still selling this stuff?”

 

“They don’t sell this year-long. That’s the grand M.O., don’t you see? Give ‘em a taste, and disappear for months. Let the cravings control ‘em, and they’ll want to hoard a stash when it’s back on the menu. Thing is, the drugs don’t last very long. Need to consume ‘em fresh. It’s a mad fest, I’ll tell ya. People getting out of control in clubs because they can’t spend a day sober, afraid that Barnes will pull the plug on the supply and be gone for God knows how long. And the new cycle begins only after the hype dies down a bit. People catch on to that trend after a while.”

 

“Crackheads that won’t holler.”

 

“Best kind of customers. Short of the dead ones. That don’t tend to blab to the cops, too.”

 

He now knows the kind of drugs they’re making, their customer base, and their general M.O. But, there’s still no proof.

 

“I need an address, or a name. A phone number? I’d like to buy some of these.”

 

“That’s not how it works. _They_ come to you, so it’s all… circumstantial.”

 

Tony slams on his brake as a tail light blares red before him. He’s almost rammed into a motorcycle.

 

That’s everything he has to gain from Masaryk. But it’s not enough.

 

Now he’s out of options.


	11. Chapter 11

Still, there’s some padding left between Barnes and a hard surface.

 

“I’m _here,_ Pep. If I’d forgotten about the wedding, I wouldn’t be up before dawn trying to board the plane – I know, I’ve precedents. Well, not this time, all right? Wouldn’t dream of ruining this for you and, uh,” Tony hastily checks the invitation card, “Happy.” He checks it again. “Yeah. Happy. You sure you printed his name right?”

 

“It’s Harold, actually, and it’s not a typo.”

 

“Hey, just making sure.” He slips the card into his laptop bag and heaves it over one shoulder. “So, I’ve almost one full day in New York, unoccupied. What can I do for you?”

 

“… You want to check out the Agora Gallery?”

 

“I would love to, but what I meant was do you need help with final preparations? Champagne sorting, seat labelling? You know, last minute stuff that seem to always jeopardise the one special day after years of loving commitment.”

 

“No, Tony. Thank you for offering.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“… This _is_ still Anthony Edward Stark I’m talking to, right?”

 

“The price of being nice.” Pepper chuckles over the phone. “I’m staying at… uh, Pod 39? I’m close by. Just holler if you need me, yeah?”

 

Just to put things – like, wallet capacities – into perspectives, Tony is booking a two-night in a funky budget hotel with a rooftop lounge, mere fifteen minutes’ drive from the wedding venue, Park Hyatt. And just as Pepper bids him goodbye, he finds himself standing on the steps of sweet ol’ Pod 39.

 

Steve will arrive later in the afternoon. Since their “Queen Pod” is available for an early check-in – trying to be cute, aren’t they? – it’s quickly arranged for Tony, and he whisks himself and his two bags to the not-so-spacious, not-expensive-looking temporary space in Manhattan that he can call his own.

 

He drops his bags by the bed and heads into the bathroom, and promptly pulls the collar from his neck.

 

Barnes did _not_ hold back. At all.

 

The bite mark is still an angry bruise under his ear. The skin has not been broken – small mercies, or else he’s punching Barnes with four knuckles and the bill for a tetanus jab the next time they cross paths again.

 

Again?

 

That’s his subconscious talking. It’s as if their next meeting has already been decided.

 

Tony raids the in-house first-aid kit on the sink for a band-aid. He slaps it over the blemish and sighs, gripping the edge of the white counter as he thinks of an excuse to satisfy Steve’s what-happened?

 

He nicked himself while shaving.

 

Maybe he should _really_ nick himself with a razor? There’s one in the set of complimentary toiletries.

 

Just as he feels his own nose gaining some inches, a dull buzz from the bedroom distracts him from his thoughts. When he reads Steve’s name on the screen, he checks himself over the vanity mirror as he answers the call.

 

“Hey. I’ve just cleared security, so I’ll be there in an hour? How’s the traffic looking?”

 

“I’m not sure. I took the train and then, walked.”

 

“Ah. Wish me luck, then.”

 

He’s about to share the same breathing and sleeping space with Steve after one whole week apart and surprise, surprise – he’s not feeling as eager as he should be.

 

He can power nap to while away the time. One second stretches too long as he imagines Steve rolling closer in a cab. He can shower himself wrinkled. Play table tennis in the rec room downstairs with other guests. Expand his network this side of America. Maybe gain a scoop or two?

 

What’s for certain, he should stop twiddling with Barnes’ name card. The ink _has_ flaked off, and he grabs the pen on the desk and rewrites “8” where it’s faded.

 

And when he thinks about Barnes, one second is non-existent.

 

Steve is already knocking on the door.

 

“Hey?”

 

Tony pulls the door wider and takes a step back.

 

“It’s cosy,” he comments airily as Steve drops his bags next to Tony’s. Cosy is a cut above crampy, coincidentally a perfect reflection of his very own checking account.

 

Steve sits in the chair by the window, and it takes that long for time to catch up, from where Steve is to where Tony is leaning against the door. Isn’t this déjà vu? Last time this happened, Steve made him shower with the bathroom door opened.

 

That was a long time ago.

 

“Sorry,” Steve eventually says. He undoes the top button of his shirt.

 

Right. A re-enactment? He’s game for a re-enactment.

 

“The car ride was rough. You mind if I sit here a bit?”

 

That, he can handle. Nothing a glass of water and a power bar can’t cure. Know what else that makes the nausea go away?

 

“Have you been to New York?”

 

“Yes, but not recently,” Steve bins the sticky wrapper from three yards away with inhuman accuracy. “What are you planning?”

 

“We’re within walking distance-ish from Central Park. You up for some sightseeing?”

 

It’s a half-an-hour urban trekking against a backdrop of bustling sidewalks, Manhattan jams and skyscrapers. Add in the extra fifteen minutes Steve took to buy them some donuts and some twenty minutes of intermittent resting and slow-walking or risk Steve throwing up said donuts all over the curb, they finally make it to the park with little incident.

 

There’s no itinerary, no plans – Tony’s talking within the context of their New York trip here – so they skip the zoo and galleries and settle under the largest tree they can find in the sanctuary. Steve sinks gratefully into a makeshift niche of roots and wraps his arms over his stomach, while Tony inflates the plastic bag that he’s poached from the donut vendor.

 

Park rules. Don’t make a mess.

 

Steve’s looking not so peaky, and Tony gives the bag another good rustling. It’s in his blood, he thinks, his knack for tact and good-timing. Steve grabs the bag and holds it before his face pre-emptively, and Tony decides it’s a good time as any to pop the question as casually as he would when ordering a sandwich.

 

“Why did you become a Dominant?”


	12. Chapter 12

Steve stops choking the bag. He appears thoughtful, like he’s contemplating emptying his stomach into it there and then.

 

“Definitely wasn’t expecting that,” he says instead. “Is this for another book?”

 

“Nah. I just realised I never asked you.”

 

“And I thought you’d put that whole scene behind you after the book and four-week columns.”

 

“It’s part of you,” Tony folds his legs up. “It’s not for any books, or articles. _I’m_ asking. Plus, I remember you promised me that story when you were kicking my ass on the treadmill.”

 

“Did I?”

 

“Yeah. It was on ‘slow’, I felt like my lungs were shaved and you looked bored.”

 

Steve gives him a lingering look that implied that wasn’t the intended question, and he starts twisting the corner of his plastic bag. No kidding, that’s a last season promise, wouldn’t be surprised if Steve forget what he’d let slip about his past.

 

Too bad. Tony doesn’t forget.

 

“… OK.” And Steve chews the inside of his mouth, or his tongue – a slight frown growing as he collects his thoughts. Tony waits. It’s when Steve suddenly flinches and looks away that Tony wishes he’d never asked it in the first place.

 

“Did I tell you about my tour in 1999?”

 

“Kosovo. Third Squadron, Seventh Cavalry, of the Second Infantry Division.” Boy, Tony has never looked so smug reciting that so sleekly in one breath.

 

And Steve stares at him in silent unease. “It’s the Fourth Cavalry.” And he turns away from Tony again.

 

Tony’s about to go on a ranting spree about how bad he is with remembering numbers – it’s the only disability that determines his signing up for a degree in Mass Communications instead of Mechanical Engineering – until a mental image blinks before him. A mental image of a goddam black and white photograph, a glimpse of a red star on a bicep, and the scribble “Third Squadron, _Seventh_ Cavalry, of the Second Infantry Division”.

 

Seventh Cavalry was Barnes’, not Steve’s.

 

Tony’s mouth goes dry, but Steve’s too preoccupied with his own memories.

 

“I was there for eighteen months. The conflict was close to resolution when I was deployed. I uh, then I came home. Anyway,” he huffs, and the plastic bag crinkles between them. “Stuff happened in Kosovo, of course. You don’t mind the lack of details, do you?”

 

“No. You’re telling the story.”

 

“OK. I don’t suppose descriptions of gore and carnage before Miss Potts’ wedding is a good idea.”

 

Amen to that.

 

“When I came back, I was in my early twenties, broke and almost alone. My CV wasn’t anything to write home about, and I was ready to work any job as I look for better opportunities. N & N was hiring. It’s a pretty straightforward story, really. Maria needed somebody to manage her warehouse, so I did.”

 

“She introduced you to the scene?”

 

“She did. By accident. There was an event one night and non-members weren’t usually allowed in. But, they were suddenly short on one on security, so Maria put me up as a stand-in. One corner got a bit too rowdy, I went in and diffused the… situation. The Sub was in a bad shape. It was obvious that nobody was coming to help him, and I was there, so I did. Maria came by and took the entire group off the membership list, and somehow, she heard about what I did.”

 

“And she made you a Dom?”

 

“… She asked if I wanted to, you know, get to know this side of the world a little bit more.”

 

“And they say, the rest is history.”

 

“She mentored me for a couple of years. Not only in the in’s and out’s of the BDSM culture, but of the industry on the whole. I learned about managing an actual business, handling of clients, and above all, discipline in all aspects conceivable. It was a virtually different experience from the Army, and for that, I was grateful.”

 

“It grounded you?”

 

“It did. I was comfortable with myself, and I was managing… life better? And then, I was accepted into a police training academy. Never looked back since.”

 

“… Well, that was pretty straightforward.”

 

“Not everything in life is sensational. Even more so for me.”

 

Tony smirks, “You’re telling me being a Dom is boring? Come on. That’s got to be the highlight of your day for years.”

 

“It’s a duty, and with duty comes responsibility. The in-house Doms in N & N were never allowed to extend relationships beyond the paid-for duration. There were those who chose to make it a more… permanent lifestyle, but Maria was adamantly against that, so we had to let them go. And I can see why.” Steve scratches his chin absent-mindedly. “Customer loyalty is good for business, only when it’s maintained with some professional distance. Emotions mess things up, especially when they’re taken too far. There’s a strange paradox at play here, I know. But still. Trust isn’t blind faith. Loyalty isn’t obsession. Maria was trying to play it safe. When make-belief blurs into reality… that’s a damage inflicted.”

 

“… Do you keep in touch with the people you worked with?”

 

“Nowadays?” Steve folds the plastic bag into his pocket. “Only you.”

 

And he sneaks his hand under the roots searching for Tony’s. He holds it there, on the slightly damp soil and grass, away from prying eyes as they idle under the shade and watch kids play Frisbees with their dogs.

 

“By the way, what happened to that?” Steve points to Tony’s neck, and Tony quickly clamps his free hand down on the band-aid.

 

Trust isn’t blind faith. Loyalty isn’t obsession.

 

This is justified. If it means protecting Steve…

 

“I nicked myself while shaving.”


	13. Chapter 13

They’re seated on the left side of the aisle, and the hall is nothing short of gorgeous. Tony rubs his palms over the stretch of his pants, knees bumping into Steve’s as he does so. Unbelievable – he’s freaking on edge over something he has zero stake in. He doesn’t care that eleven purple balloons have burst since he signed his name in the guestbook. Or that mini-sandwich he just had was charred on the underside.

 

“Relax,” Steve tuts next to him. “It’s gonna be fine.”

 

Tony’s spotted no less than five men and women in classy black-and-white getup holding clipboards and walking talkies. “If it didn’t, she should get all her money back.”

 

“Tony, is that you?”

 

They both look up at once, and right beside them stood an old couple whom Tony has not spoken to in years. Decades, even. The lady smiles kindly upon them, her curious eyes raking Steve not-so-surreptitiously from top to bottom, one arm hooked around her husband’s elbow.

 

Tony rises to shake their hands. “Mr and Mrs Potts. So good to see you.”

 

She leans in to peck Tony on the cheek, before shaking Steve’s hand as well. “You come together with Tony?”

 

“Yes, ma’am. Congratulations on your daughter’s wedding.”

 

“Thank you. When are you going back? I’d love to have you two over for a family dinner next Tuesday. Goodness, I haven’t seen you in a while, Tony.” Her hand comes up to brush against his collar. Some motherly affection that he can’t get enough of. “How’ve you been?”

 

“I’m good. Better, actually.” And his grin widens as he gestures to Steve. “This is Steve Rogers. My partner.”

 

They nod politely again at Steve, and Tony looks down at his shoes. Pepper’s parents gave him refuge when he had none. They gave him understanding that he so direly needed in his most tumultuous moments. There’s a knowing twinkle in the depths of Mrs Potts’ eyes, and it’s enough.

 

Mr Potts clears his throat, and Tony agrees, the sappiness is like an itch begging to be scratched. “Have you gone home lately? It has been so long.”

 

“Yeah? I didn't notice.”

 

A grey brow rises. “But, what about your brother? Arno is -”

 

“We haven't been on speaking terms in years.”

 

One of the event planners wave over to them, and Mrs Potts taps on her husband’s arm. “You should go to Pepper now. It’s time.”

 

And so it is.

 

When the piano plays and the congregation rises, Tony relegates himself to one of the hundred-and-twenty friends-and-family who’ve jetted across the country for the celebration. The veil shades part of her blushing cheeks and lipstick-ed smile, but… he can see her anyway. He knows of her beauty and her strength. She’s the apple of his eyes.

 

She kind of winks at him and Steve as she ambles past them.

 

Tony chuckles. He can almost cry.

 

After the exchange of vows and rings, after the long-awaited you-may-kiss-the-bride, after she and Happy are among immediate family members, Tony and Steve pull away to hang at a farther corner with their glasses of wine.

 

“Good God, can’t imagine that lil tyke is married.”

 

Steve spares him an almost exasperated glance. “If she’s still a tyke, you are, too.” One of Pepper’s younger cousins – probably half their ages – walks past them and for reasons unknown, sticks her tongue out at them. “So, I didn’t know your parents are still around? You don’t talk about them much.”

 

“That is incorrect. I don’t talk about them at all.”

 

“Do you visit them?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“Take a day off. Let’s.”

 

“… That’s enough wine for you.” Tony takes Steve’s flute of champagne and pours the remainder into his own. “There’s like fifteen percent of alcohol per volume in this.”

 

“I’m serious, Tony. Maybe without me,” Steve adds suddenly. “But you should.”

 

“… OK.”

 

Steve blinks. “You will? I’m expecting some heated dissensions here.”

 

“I will. Just not so soon.”

 

This is one of the things that deserves to be procrastinated on. Like smoking and boozing. Another day. Another time. The want will go away.

 

Tony leans back against the wall and watches Steve’s profile. Steve’s all glitters and smiles – the glitters are courtesy of Pepper’s single-digit-aged flower girls – and looks absolutely content basking in the joy and cheers of Pepper’s holy matrimony. Tony looks over to the stage and sees the bride and groom surrounded by more family members – people whom he doesn’t recognise this time, perhaps Happy’s side of the family?

 

Tony downs all of his champagne in one go.

 

“I wonder if one day we would…”  And he suddenly looks up from his empty flute, realising belated that he’s said all that out loud. Steve apparently heard him, because he’s looking over with curiosity, too. “I mean,” Tony straightens up and lowers his glass. “Not talking about _us_ per se, but this is all legal for… people like us now. How far have we come?”

 

“… There’ll be a lot less pink and glitter, maybe?”

 

“More GTA and beer.”

 

“We’re stereotyping, Tony.”

 

“That, we are.”

 

Steve’s shoulder brushes against his as he eases himself to Tony's right. “What’s your plan, anyway? Do you see yourself settling down five, ten years down the road?”

 

“I can’t see where I’ll be _next week_ , to be honest…”

 

“Having a family doesn’t sound so bad.”

 

Tony sighs and starts loosening his tie. “I guess not. I’ve an idea. How about we go visit your folks instead? Mine aren’t exactly the friendliest bunch.”

 

Steve drops his gaze to the carpet. “They’re not around anymore.”

 

“… Steve, I’m gonna be blunt about this, ‘cause I wanna address this freaking bush we’re currently beating about.” He actually thinks they’re doing OK, reading things in-between the lines, gauging where the other mind is heading. And he hates it. “Forgive me if I’m jumping the gun here. I’m comfortable with our current arrangements. I’m giving it my all, and I’d like to build something with you, grow something between us.”

 

“But there’re issues to work around first.”

 

Tony pulls his tie free and loops it around his hand. “Like work. Or, setting my own crap straight first.”

 

“If something needs mending, it’s not just or always you, Tony.”

 

“Yeah. But I wanna tar the road anew. If you’d let me.”

 

Steve surveys him thoughtfully. Tony catches a fleeting hint of a smile before he goes back to watching the flower girls showering each other with more glitters.  


	14. Chapter 14

“Someone’s eager tonight.”

 

Tony pushes pillows off the bed and scoots closer to the headboard. Steve is quick to follow, suddenly straddling him and pinning him to the mattress under them. In one fluid tug, the towel he’s wrapped around his waist end up on the floor, and Steve’s warm body is flush against his.

 

Two hours before, they excused themselves from the wedding party. The cab ride took them thirty minutes. Then, they brisk-walked to their pod. They spent the next forty in the shower, flirting and washing each other’s hair and bodies. Steve left Tony alone for a more… thorough round of cleansing, both sporting erections so needy walking was a chore.

 

“Feel this?”

 

Steve gathers both their cocks in his hands and pumps. Tony sighs, and wraps his legs around Steve’s waist. Last time he found release was three days ago, an unsexy, lonely me-time with his trusty palm. Kicking his heels into Steve’s kidneys, he grins, “OK, come on in. What you wanted, right?”

 

“… Only if you do.”

 

“Yeah, I do. If this isn’t obvious enough.” Tony angles his butt upward. Steve looks carnivorous again. “So fuck me, unless you wanna sit around and write poetry or something.”

 

Steve grabs Tony by the elbows, and with another powerful tug, pulls him all the way up that he’s draped over Steve’s front. Their cocks mesh deliciously against each other in their laps, and Steve whispers right into his ears, “Ride me.”

 

“… I’m too lazy for that?”

 

“Take control.” Steve rests his large hands on Tony’s hipbone. “Sit up. I’ll guide you.”

 

Maybe after a couple of cans of Red Bull, he’ll want to take charge, too. But he hasn’t, so _grudgingly_ , he complies. He sits up, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of Steve’s flank.

 

“Relax. Let it ease in.”

 

Nothing some warm water, a good massage on his sphincter muscles and generous dollops of lubricant can’t do.

 

Tony lowers himself by the freaking millimetre, his joints creaking as he strains in his half-squat posture. He’s getting too old for this. The head of Steve’s glorious cock is raring at his entrance.

 

“Easy does it, Tony.”

 

Here goes nothing.

 

He pushes against Steve, and winces as his hole stretches in its attempt to receive Steve. Which is still mighty uncomfortable, despite the preparations. Tony pauses, and draws in a few quick breaths.

 

“OK?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

And he takes in several inches more.

 

“About halfway there, Tony.”

 

“… Yeah?”

 

He’d like to keep the descend going, but –

 

“Steve, stop. Don’t move.”

 

“… I’m not. What’s wrong?”

 

“… It’s painful.”

 

“Breathe.”

 

The half-squat is so killing his cartilages. Five inhales and exhales later, the pin-and-needle starts settling in. There’s sweat beading on his forehead, and Steve looks like he’s left something burning on the stove.

 

“Tony, pull out.”

 

“I can do this. Just gimme a sec.”

 

“Don’t force it. Pull out, slowly.”

 

“… I said, don’t move.”

 

“I’m _not_. You’re shaking.”

 

What rubbish –

 

His knuckles are white about Steve’s thighs, whose muscular flesh is now sporting multiple red streaks where Tony has gripped for support. His knees are giving out, and Steve’s right, he’s a jittery mass sitting in Steve’s laps.

 

He lifts himself up and promptly crumples to his side. He hugs Steve around his shin as he clenches and unclenches his butt muscles, just in case Steve has literally torn him a new one.

 

This is seriously a matter of acquired taste. What can he do to make it – at the very least – palatable?

 

“Sorry.” His floppy dick apologises, too. “This is ridiculous.”

 

Steve racks their cocks together again, this time Tony’s own a pathetic saggy piece of meat against Steve’s rigid length. The difference in size is comical, and Tony feels a little bit more of him just died inside.

 

“We’re not finishing like this?”

 

Steve obviously doesn’t want to hear anymore no’s, not’s and don’ts, and he silences them all with a searing kiss over Tony’s unsuspecting mouth. There are hands moving between them, and Tony loops his arms around Steve’s neck. There’s not an inch of Steve that isn’t drop dead gorgeous, but he closes his eyes nevertheless, and he sees Steve still in the darkness.

 

Mounting pleasure is rapidly taking over, and Steve swallows his gasps. It doesn’t take long for him to lurch into Steve, coming first and all over them. That’s… a dick move, and he’s useless when he’s no longer horny – or wide-awake, for the matter.

 

But from where he reclines, he watches Steve masturbate over him. Half-lidded eyes, silent moans, sweaty chest –

 

His lover. His partner.

 

Steve suddenly angles his cock away and spews semen over his discarded shirt. His foresight deserves an applause. And Tony would’ve clapped his hands if it weren’t for Steve suddenly looking up and over at him, smiling the kind of smile that Tony reserved only for Pepper, or her parents. Or Rhodey.

 

Or Steve.

 

As he lounges in their bed while Steve washes up in the bathroom – again – he flips through a complimentary copy of the dailies without paying much heed to the printed words. It’s midnight and his brain is a mush – so is everything else inside his pants – which means at this point in time, he’s only capable of processing information from a picture book.

 

The mugshot on page six made him want to punch something.

 

Ezekiel Stane, _Director_ of Alchemax, a subsidiary of Shaw Industries is holding a press conference at Sheraton Grand Sacramento Hotel. About what, doesn’t matter. Tony’s breast pocket has been burning hot since that run-in with Obadiah Stane and James Barnes – the blank cheque a constant mockery.

 

The press conference is on Tuesday noon.

 

He should drop by and say hi.


	15. Chapter 15

“So, my gate is this way. Yours’ _that_ way. Guess I’ll see you again next week?”

 

Tony heaves his bag more securely over one shoulder and grasps Steve by the elbow. And they say all good things must come to an end. Natural selection will ensure the continual existence of masochists, believe it. It’s the only way to embrace life and live it fully, because saying goodbye sucked then, is sucking now, and will suck until Steve gets his ass transferred to Sacramento. _Or_ Tony could rage quit and go work in L.A. because for obvious reason, Sacramento Bee doesn’t have branches in L.A.

 

Steve suddenly angles his chin to capture Tony’s lips fully. When he backs up, there’s a sneaky smile in place as Tony concentrates on the lingering memory of that touch. It’s these little parting gestures that he engraves into his cranium to be used later as masturbating material.

 

“It’s broad daylight in an airport, Steve,” he complains instead.

 

“Do you mind?”

 

“… Not really?”

 

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t do it again.”

 

Tony looks around them. An old man who’d obviously caught them kissing awesomely in public spaces is staring daggers at him. “Well, ‘airports have seen more sincere kisses than the wedding halls, and the walls of hospitals have heard more prayers than the walls of a church’.”

 

“Wise words,” Steve nods his head. “The Pope?”

 

“Reddit. You should go. Your gate has opened.”

 

Steve checks his boarding pass and a shadow flits across his face. Looks like this isn’t easy for him, either. Between them, Steve’s usually better at being stoic about leaving.

 

“I’ll call you.”

 

“You bet your ass.”

 

When Tony finally drags himself home that night, he has only enough energy to kick the front door close with his toes, drop his bag on the rug, and drop himself on the floor by the coffee table. He would’ve fallen asleep as is if it weren’t for Steve’s promised phone call, cajoling him from four hundred miles away to get showered, dressed and a good night sleep –

 

“Nope. I’m very comfortable where I am now. In fact, I’m gonna pass out in three, two, one point five…”

 

“A good night sleep in _bed,_ Tony.”

 

“If in some parallel universe I’m a genius engineer, I wanna invent a robot that deposits fast asleep people into their respective beds, without waking them up in the process.”

 

Morning comes before he knows it. A brand-new Tuesday, in fact. He brushes his teeth, combs his hair, checks his clothes for tears, and finds his way to Sheraton Grand Sacramento Hotel. There’s traffic around the entrance, so the press conference is well on its way. And the first person he bumps into is –

 

“Tony Stark – I thought you were dead!”

 

An elbow digs into his ribs and a dead weight saddled on his shoulder almost drags him to the tarmac.

 

“Rhodey, Christ, you’ve definitely gained some pounds.”

 

James Rhodes, back in the season. He’s all grins that half of his face is just teeth, and Tony pulls him in for a quick hug. “Long time. How are you?”

 

“I’m doing interviews now.”

 

“What happened to Sports?”

 

“A rookie just joined in so they gave him my spot. I thought they were going to fire me, until they gave me this badge.” Rhodey points at his lanyard.

 

Tony squints at it. “How is this different from your old one?”

 

“An updated mugshot. Nothing’s changed.”

 

“… You’re covering Zeke’s press conference?”

 

And Rhodey raises a dark brow. He repeats the name slowly. “ _Zeke?_ As in, Ezekiel Stane? You know the guy? You sound pretty casual about him.”

 

“… It’s a common nickname. Ezekiel is two syllables too many.”

 

Then, several people walk up the raised platform, when one of them – Ezekiel – stands somewhat apart from the rest. Members of the floor begin sitting down, and Tony hastily does the same. He has no permission to be here – shouldn’t there be security or something? – so he quickly pulls out his own press badge and clips it to his breast pocket.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you and welcome for your attendance this morning,” the emcee speaks into her microphone. “We’ll be taking a few questions from the press, but before that I’d like to call upon Mr Ezekiel Stane, Director of Alchemax to introduce the company. Mr Stane?”

 

And the man himself – in all his prideful glory – walks up to the podium. “Thank you, Lisa. On behalf of Alchemax, I’d like to thank you all for coming. From official press releases last week, most of you must’ve known Alchemax as a subsidiary company of Shaw Industries. But, not much is known about our business, which is why we’re all gathered here this morning.

 

“We’re a pharmaceutical company focusing on gene and cell therapies to – and let me say this bluntly – cure mortality.”

 

There’s a burst of subdued murmurs, and Ezekiel waves his hand a bit. “We’re nowhere close to the Fountain of Youth, of course. Maybe in five to ten years? We’ll keep you posted.

 

“We have the brightest of minds on our teams, experts in the sciences of aging. We’re developing therapies to address the causes of aging at the molecular level, hoping to first understand this phenomenon and in time, cure it. Our company webpage will be up in a couple of hours, and the details of our ongoing projects are listed there.”

 

He nods at the emcee again, who nods back. “OK,” Ezekiel adjusts his microphone. “I’ll be happy to take your questions now.”

 

Rhodey’s hand shoots up so fast into the air that he almost clocks Tony right in the jaw. His enthusiasm is one thing. Ezekiel’s frown upon noticing Tony is another.

 

“Mr Stane, I’m from Sacramento Bee. Do you have products on the market, and if so, what are they?”

 

“Thank you for the question.” Ezekiel folds his arms across his chest, and Tony suspects he’s avoiding eye contact with him again. “We are still in the middle of developing our products. We have a few queued up for clinical trials and a couple more undergoing them. The telomerase lengthening therapy has just been approved for phase IIB. As for our proprietary myostatin inhibitor, we’re currently recruiting subjects for phase I. Hopefully we’ll have some good news for you when we meet again.” Ezekiel ends it with a tight grin before he addresses the opposite corner of the congregation.

 

Tony scratches his ankle. Director of a company in the business of selling longevity?

 

No wonder he can afford a blank cheque.


	16. Chapter 16

Thirty minutes later, the emcee goes up the platform and thanks everybody for their attendance. The bustle of chairs shifting around rouse Tony from his preoccupation with his tablet.

 

“Hey, man,” Rhodey taps his on his shoulder. “I’m heading back to the office. You coming?”

 

People are filing out of the foyer and Tony checks the stage. The emcee is still there by the podium talking to Ezekiel. And in that split second, their eyes meet.

 

“You go ahead, Rhodey. I’m staying back a bit.”

 

He would’ve stayed put in his chair, but the hotel’s staff have started collecting them, piling them up high on trolleys that Tony has no choice but to stand up and linger by the wall, out of the way. He keeps Ezekiel on his radar all the time, lest he ducks out of sight and disappears for good. And that’s good thinking because he’s caught Ezekiel stealing a couple of glances in his direction, then the exit, but his colleagues look very much engaged in their ongoing conversation.

 

When he suddenly breaks into a grin and turns his back against Tony… well, this is how awkward social getaways look like.

 

Tony closes their gap in a few quick steps. “Mr Stane, I’m from the Bee.” He’s trying to save face for an asshole here. “I’ve a few questions for you. Do you have a minute?”

 

The emcee nods and says, “We’ll go straight ahead, see you another time.”

 

Now it’s just him, Ezekiel and the crew cleaning up the foyer.

 

“I’m thinking… apple strudel. Come on.” Just like that, Ezekiel steps around Tony and heads for the revolving door.

 

Is this really the same man who was – a couple of months ago – strapped onto the adjacent table, cucumber-fucked in public by Sebastian Shaw? The same guy, really? This five-figure earning, charismatic and influential CEO of a breakthrough pharma company of the decade –

 

“Tony,” Ezekiel suddenly speaks as they make their way to an unassuming corner shop with velvet red awning. “We should not make meeting up like this a habit, you know what I mean?”

 

“It’s a press conference, and I’ve a badge.”

 

“Fair enough.” And he leans in somewhat. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

 

Two orders of smouldering apple strudels and black coffee later, Tony slides the cheque across the table. Ezekiel stares at it plainly, noting the empty space beside “Amount” before his lips strain into an easy grin again.

 

“It’s blank for a reason, Tony. Any number you have in mind.”

 

“… Zeke. It is still ‘Zeke’, right?” Ezekiel returns a steely glare, and Tony folds his arms on the table. “I think, your father was framed. I think, somebody is bidding their time, looking for an opening to get rid of him. Perhaps he’s pissed off somebody? A book published in bad taste? Ring a bell?”

 

“… Stane Publication is genre specific. My father only accepts works that are for LGBT rights and, shall I say, certain kinks?”

 

Ezekiel’s cheeks flare up in a shade comparable to his pie. Tony picks up his fork. “Are you familiar with his work?”

 

“I finance Stane Publication. I go through their portfolio every six months.”

 

“You believe your father is innocent?”

 

“I know I can’t convince you. The evidence is stacked against him. But he’s my father, and I know he didn’t do it. That’s what the cheque is for, Tony. You and I don’t have to do this the complicated way.”

 

Tony shoves pie into his mouth. Gut feelings tell him there’s a bigger, badder wolf prowling out there.

 

“What can you tell me about James Buchanan Barnes?”

 

Ezekiel promptly drops his fork onto his plate, metal clanging against porcelain. “Interesting question. Do you know James?”

 

“We have mutual friends.”

 

“James and I share the same… business interests. Alchemax was a start-up headed by a team of pharmacologists and synthetic biologists from Cornell. We used to fund their projects. When two of them were approved for clinical trials, we decided to formally acquire the company.

 

“Frankly, it wasn’t an easy acquisition. Start-ups can be difficult to work with, especially if they’re founded by tech guys.”

 

Tony still can’t see the link here. What’s a start-up like Alchemax got to do with Bucky Barnes?

 

“There were issues with funding. National grants weren’t enough to tide them over, and none of the Big Four were convinced that they would work. So, they tried something else. One of the team members knew James personally, and James offered to source materials for them cheaply.”

 

“From the black market?”

 

“Likely so.”

 

“There’s no free lunch. What does Barnes get in return?”

 

“… I don’t know. The paper trails came up during the acquisition and I paid James back in full.”

 

“Does Mr Shaw know about it?”

 

And to that, Ezekiel presses his lips into a thin line. He takes another sip of coffee and say nothing.

 

Tony sits straighter in his chair. This is a long shot, but never try never know. “Zeke, I need those papers. Bills, MTAs, memos, anything that links Barnes to Alchemax –”

 

Ezekiel laughs, dry and rough. “Are you nuts? Why would I implicate _myself_ in this mess, a mess that’d taken place _before_ my time?”

 

“You said it, it happened before Shaw Industries acquire Alchemax –”

 

“And I’m the CEO right now, Tony. If this deal comes to light, it’s over for me.”

 

“… Then, why did you tell me what you did?” Ezekiel crumples his paper napkin, perhaps with too much enthusiasm than is required. “I didn’t realise it then, Zeke. About your father. If it’s of any comfort, if I had the information back then, I wouldn’t have reported it.”

 

The tale of Stane Sr and Jr being screwed over by Barnes. Tragic.

 

“Thank you for the strudel, Mr Stane,” Tony raps the table once with his knuckle. “Word to the wise. Stay away from Barnes. But you know that already.”

 

“Tony,” Ezekiel shoots up from his chair to grab Tony by his elbow, stopping him from leaving. “What happened to Lieutenant Rogers, I’m sorry.”

 

His brows pinch. “I know. He’s fine now. Don’t worry about it.” It’s getting stale, really. They’d both received enough sympathy to last a lifetime.

 

“No, you don’t understand.” There’s urgency in the tug around his arm now. “Sebastian and I introduced James to the community.”


	17. Chapter 17

“As in,” Tony licks his chapped lips as he considers the implications. “You guys taught Barnes the art of stringing people up for torture.”

 

A vast exaggeration of the fact, perhaps. Almost crude and untrue. Ezekiel releases him but says nothing.

 

“I’m all ears, Zeke.”

 

“My father likes to meet his clients at the coffee shop. He can’t see well at night, so I’ve to pick him up after work most of the time.” They settle into their respective chairs, and Tony finds newfound respect for Ezekiel’s showcase of filial piety. “One day, Sebastian came along because… he wanted to bring our session to public. It was a simple toy, nothing I couldn’t handle –”

 

“Why didn’t you tell Shaw ‘no’?”

 

“I could handle it,” Ezekiel replies coldly in a tone that suggests finality.

 

Not his circus, not his monkeys, really.

 

“Dad was still talking, so we hung out at the bar. It got a bit too intense and we had to excuse ourselves for a bit. James found us in the hallway, and he said he wanted to learn more. Sebastian has always been opened to mentoring new Doms, so we meet up twice a week in one of the downtown clubs.”

 

“Please say it’s not N & N.”

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“Small world, isn’t it?” Ezekiel looks up, not quite understanding as Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let me get this straight. Shaw funded a team of scientists working on – and I deduce from Alchemax products on trials – anti-aging pharmaceuticals, and when they’re showing some real promise, you guys bought them over. Somehow, behind your backs, they source materials under the table through Barnes, and when you found out about it, you paid him in full. Hush money?”

 

Again, Ezekiel says nothing.

 

Tony continues, “On an unrelated note, he also caught you and Shaw in the hallway, and then you both introduce him to the nuthouse. Is that a great plot twist or what.”

 

“Have some respect for the discipline –”

 

“OK, fine,” Tony raises his hands. He’s done talking smack about it anyway. “I appreciate you telling me this. I do. But, let bygone be bygone.”

 

“… That’s generous of you.”

 

“It’s not on you. Let it go.” The words just flow out of his mouth before he can even process them. Sincerely, strangely enough. Give a man a knife, and he chooses if he wants to cut vegetable or gut someone with it. The blood is on Barnes’ hands.

 

“Sebastian threw him out of the dungeon by the third week.” Tony looks up at Ezekiel again. “James has a… shall we say, predisposition to violence. His style is too aggressive, and he drops often. His Subs called a red every single time, and he was rapidly cycling through the pool of experienced ones. It was bad for business, so he was barred from returning to the club. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to stop him.

 

“I’d like to make peace with myself, Tony.” Ezekiel folds his hands in his laps. “I was afraid that what we did for James kick-started the whole thing – him keeping the Lieutenant for two weeks, and all that’d happened after that. Have I ruined their lives?”

 

Tony doesn’t know, either.

 

* * *

 

“Where’ve you been? I told you I was coming by.”

 

Tony got the heart attack of his life when _Maria Hill_ emerge from behind some shrubs and stalk towards him. He’s about to get out of his car when upon seeing her in her bristling glory, he winds the window up and locks the door.

 

Maria raps on his windshield, hard, and flashes her middle finger.

 

“Maria, seriously,” tentatively, he lowers the window a fraction. “Have I wronged you in anyway? You make me nervous, to be honest, and I don’t like having reactions when I see your, uh, lovely silhouette in the corner of my eye.”

 

“Oh, do I scare you?”

 

“You do intimidate me sometimes –”

 

“– because you make me wait outside of Steve’s door for forty minutes, and I’d missed the bank’s closing time.”

 

“… Oh, Christ. I forgot.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Right before he turned in yesterday, Maria messaged him about her coming to Steve’s to deliver the first toy he’s supposed to review. In his defence, it was two in the morning. He couldn’t care less if President Trump were to visit him the next day, all he wanted was his bed.

 

At least he’s here instead of his own place, some thirty minutes’ drive away.

 

“Uh, come on in.” He unlocks the doors and kicks his shoes aside. “Are you hungry? Maybe a beer?”

 

“Just water.”

 

The toy Maria indicated sits in a black paper bag, and as Tony fills a glass with water, he has half the mind of dunking his head under the running tap as well. Good God, there is no going back on his words, is there?

 

“How far along are you in your training?”

 

“… My training?”

 

“What roleplays have you done with Steve? What scenes and toys have you tried out?”

 

Excuse him while he collects his lower jaw from the floor. He clears his throat. “We… don’t really do that anymore since the convention.”

 

“… Huh.”

 

“Hey, I didn’t volunteer for this.”

 

“Last I remember, you were pretty enthusiastic when I said I was giving you one-thousand dollar worth of toys for free.”

 

Tony sighs. “That, I did.”

 

Fuck if he does, fuck if he doesn’t.

 

“A novice shouldn’t fool around with this,” Maria warns as she hands over the bag. It’s pretty light. “You should have Steve operate this for you. Or,” she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, “ _I_ can offer you assistance.”

 

“Hell no.”

 

“Just a suggestion.”

 

He should be freaking out. It sounds like something insidious that he wants absolutely nothing to do with it. And in that split second, the idea of a Sub to trust his Dom in having his way with him… is like being doused in ice water.

 

It’s not about Steve. It’s not even about them.

 

“Maria, how do you decide if one is a Dom or a Sub?”

 


	18. Chapter 18

“What do you mean, how we decide?”

 

“Well, yeah – I mean, you don’t just stroll into a club and spin a wheel that’s painted 'Dom' on one half and 'Sub' on another.” Tony squints at Maria’s untouched glass of water. “Or do you?”

 

“… Nobody’s forced to be someone they’re uncomfortable of being. If a role appeals to said person, we do our best to groom them into it.”

 

“Let me rephrase that. How did Steve become a Dom?”

 

“… Why don’t you ask him direct?”

 

“I know why he’s into the discipline. I don’t know what makes him a natural Dom. You mentored him,” he adds almost accusingly, like Maria’s the reason Steve has a kink, and now he’s got to deal with it. “Just wanna hear your opinion.”

 

She takes a long draught from her glass, contemplative. “Personality.”

 

“And I thought it’s about the size of their dick. Tell me something new, Maria. I figured that much out myself.”

 

“People with domineering personalities often wind up as Doms when they come to us. Taking control and giving commands come easily to them. They also tend to be less agreeable, but capable of making hard decisions, bossy – if you will – and demanding when it comes to dealing with others. Traits that are sometimes penalised in real life. But in a role play, Subs willingly submit to their power. What is viewed as annoying is now welcomed and appreciated.”

 

“Wow. Whatever it takes to get them through the day.”

 

“Who are we to judge?” She puts down her glass. “There’s a group of minority who goes _against_ this behaviour. Type A people who gravitate towards submissive roles as they free up their mind from the stress and responsibilities that come with power. But, like I said – minority.”

 

After thanking Maria for the hardware delivery and impromptu crash course in D/s power balance, Tony ushers her out of the house and wishes her good night and good riddance. He’s late for his every-other-nightly video chat with Steve. It’s close to eight o’clock, not the best time to call because –

 

“Hey,” Steve’s face pops into view. Fresh out of the shower, there are droplets of water running down his face, some sticking to his lashes, but his easy smile makes Tony burst into one, too. “Thought you wouldn’t call today. How’s everything going?”

 

“Peachy. Maria dropped by.”

 

A loud clang tears through the speaker when Steve drop the metal whatever he’s holding. “Maria dropped by?”

 

“Oh yes… to deliver us this baby.” Tony lifts the black paper bag into the camera’s view. “My first assignment. _So_ looking forward.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Let’s find out.” He rips the plastic wrapping apart and brandishes the box before the camera again. “Can you read the label?”

 

“It says… Jesus Christ.”

 

Tony flips it over and reads the label himself. Frowning, he says, “… Uh, no. Actually it says ‘ElectroStim Urethral Sound’.”

 

“It’s a urethral sound, Tony.”

 

“I know. I just read it.”

 

“Get another toy from Maria. Say we’re not interested in using this.”

 

“Whoa, pass. I’d rather spend two hours with this,” he shakes the box and listens to it rattle, “than to speak with that she-devil again. So, pray tell, what on earth is a urethral sound?”

 

Steve’s smile morphs from one of mirth to pity. He shakes his head lightly. “You’ll hate it.”

 

“I’m choosing the lesser of two evils, Steve. Work with me. What does it do?”

 

“The general idea is to stick a metal rod into your penis and shock it with electricity.”

 

Tony cannot sleep a wink that night.

 

In a heartbeat, it’s Saturday again. So passes an unbelievably hectic week. Pepper became Mrs Hogan, Shaw Industries took over Alchemax, Steve came home…

 

And there Tony stands by the door, his hair kind of unkempt because he just spent the morning dusting the place. He’s kind of sweaty and sticky all over, but that doesn’t stop Steve from pulling him into an embrace, serenaded by quiet whispers of I-miss-you’s.

 

Then only the complaint begins. “Haven’t you showered?”

 

“I was just wiping the cupboards. If you’d pop by ten minutes later, I’ll be smooth-skinned like a baby’s bum.”

 

They sit down for lunch in front of the TV. Gordon Ramsay is on it, which explains Tony snorting at the snark and Steve frowning at it. When the advertisements start rolling…

 

“I’ve been assigned my first case.”

 

Tony takes a swig of beer. “Oh? What is it about? P and C, I get,” and he burps. “Say whatever you’re cleared to say.”

 

“A senior agent passed away last spring and I’ve been given his portfolio. I’m still in the middle of the handover, so no details as of yesterday, but… it sounds like a lot of work.”

 

“Field duties?”

 

“Management, actually.”

 

If it’s only managerial duties, he wonders if Steve now stands a better chance at moving back to Sacramento. He doesn’t mention it – between Ramsay’s bleeped out reprimands and some random chick’s tearful commentaries. Shut down these selfish thoughts, shut them down and out.

 

“Where’s Maria’s toy?”

 

“I’m thinking of using it as a hair curler.”

 

“Tony.”

 

“It’s there,” his lip jutting out towards the bookcase. “In the black paper bag.”  

 

But the sun is still up! Tony watches Steve undo the flap of the box and pulls out a thingy that looks like a screwdriver, only much more sleek and delicate looking. A wussy screwdriver? It looks like it needs a lot of lubricant to work nicely, and happily they’re all out of lubricant – when Steve pulls out an accompanying bottle from the bag, what the hell, seriously. Then, Steve places his large hand over Tony’s shoulder, firm enough to prevent an immediate escape from the vicinity.

 

He leans in and asks, “Permission, Tony?”


	19. Chapter 19

“Yes,” he replies almost breathlessly.

 

Steve brandishes the sound between them. “Looks like a seven mm,” his eyes rake over the metal rod from the handle to the blunt end. “Seven inches long. You’re lucky, this won’t be too invasive.”

 

“Of course they come in other shapes and sizes. What was I thinking?”

 

“Some have pretty impressive reach. Down to the base of the penis, even the bladder.”

 

“… Any _accidental deaths_ reported from using these things?”

 

“I think not.” Steve twiddles the sound about its handle, studying it with intent. “It’s well made. Polished, no scratches or defects. That’s important. It’ll be bad if it nicks you from the inside.” He flips it upside to appraise the handle. “It’s unipolar. This is the controller, so where’s the…”

 

Steve shakes the box twice while Tony holds his breath. If this toy-from-hell is unipolar, it means his body has to be connected to the sound direct, somehow, to complete the circuit. Steve is searching the box for something. Likely the missing piece. Great, let it _not_ be here, let it be a case of sold-separately –

 

“Here it is. A cock ring, huh?”

 

Damn it all.

 

The ring sits nicely atop Steve’s palm.

 

“Didn’t you say rings aren’t safe to use?”

 

“There are risks of course, no more than using a sound. Maria must be feeling generous. She’s packed us some lub and cleaning agents.” Steve pulls out those items from the paper bag, all the while appreciating how expensive they are and how lucky _they_ are for getting the set for free. If only Tony has enough presence of mind to pay attention.

 

“You’re being quiet. That’s unusual.”

 

“Have you done this before?”

 

“Enough,” Steve shrugs, and holds his free hand out.

 

To which Tony scowls. Tugging his pants off, he throws them over his shoulder – Steve can clean up after them later, he’s not the one getting tortured – and spreads his thighs open. This is worse than going to the dentist.

 

The cock ring closes nicely at the base of his flaccid cock, and he watches Steve sterilise the sound with an alcohol swab. _Now_ it’s like watching a YouTube tutorial without the word-by-word instructions and a lot more anxiety.

 

“What’s the safeword, Tony?”

 

“Banana?”

 

“You never get that right. Ever.”

 

“Then, what are the odds of getting it right if I change the safeword _now_?”

 

“… Stop me if there’s pain.”

 

Why, oh why, does this keep happening to him?

 

When the alcohol dries, Steve coats the tip with goo and over his slit. He has _never_ thought of inserting things into his dick, _never_ , and never thought it was possible even. Tonight is a night of discovery, of shifting paradigm and expanding the mind. The whole clusterfuck. Steve lowers the sound, and Tony finds himself chanting don’t-force-it-in in loops in the manliest voice he can muster in the safe space of his head. He grips Steve by the shoulders and clenches hard, doesn’t care if his fingernails are making crescent-shaped scars because they _both_ deserve a bit of pain.

 

“OK? Breathe, Tony. It’s not that bad, is it?”

 

Don’t speak, don’t effing move! His manhood is at stake here.

 

“Tony?”

 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

 

There’s a stretch in his cock and a hint of burn – Christ, is that a bad sign? – and he watches the rod disappear by the inch.

 

“Just let it sit. Breathe.”

 

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take as long to get used to the invasiveness. It’s about two-inch deep – a personal feat – and Steve likes to push boundaries, so he extracts the sound a bit, and lets it slide in again, little up-and-down’s that draws gasps between his teeth. He’s only half-hard – also another feat, given the circumstances – and then there’s the fucking pressure –

 

“Steve, wait –”

 

Steve stops whatever he’s doing with the sound, rubbing idle circles over his inner thigh.

 

Now, _that_ takes some getting used to. A healthy dose of non-self-preservation might come in handy, too.

 

“Painful?”

 

“No. Weird.”

 

“I’ll have to use some force from here on. A light burn is normal.”

 

“A burn in my pee hole is _normal –_ are you _sure,_ Steve? Doubly, triply _sure_?”

 

“Yes, I am. Do you want me to stop?”

 

Either he has acquired some taste in masochism, or he’s completely lost his mind. Tony shakes his head, and reaffirms his grips on Steve’s shoulders. The sound is now three and a half inches deep.

 

“This depth deserves a mention in the Guinness Book of Records, I’m positive.”

 

Steve sighs, and does not comment.

 

“By the way, how long are we at this already?”

 

“About thirty minutes?”

 

“Already? Christ. You could’ve fucked me, get this done and over with.”

 

“Focus, Tony. I haven’t zapped you yet.”

 

“Where’s your bedside manners? You’re scaring the crap out of me.”

 

Tony eyes the innocuous-looking black remote, plastic with a matte finish. It’s already clipped to the handle and Steve’s thumb hovers over a bright red switch. Nothing good comes out of a bright red switch. Planes go boom, trains go boom –

 

“God, Steve! I –”

 

He would’ve doubled over and dislocated the sound. Steve’s anticipated that. With his free arm, he catches Tony around his chest, and props him up until his backbone decides to man up and regain some form of structure.

 

“OK?”

 

What the hell?

 

The vibration stops. Steve has the gall to chuckle. “Good?”

 

“You’re evil.”

 

Steve ghosts his fingers over Tony’s fully erect cock, over the veins and head, over the edge of the sound. When he turns it on again, Tony loses himself to the weirdass sensation of pleasure and pain. He knows full well Steve’s eyes are burning through his skull, the way his cock is lighting up in ways he cannot imagine –

 

“Can’t – can’t hold on –”

 

The buzz stops, and Steve takes it off – one steady, clean pull around the handle – and he launches himself into Tony. Pressing him against the couch, Steve grips the abused cock and pumps.

 

“Steve, I –”

 

“Let go.”

 

It burns, all right. It burns, and Steve’s working it roughly. He topples off the edge and comes, biting into Steve’s shoulder right before him to quell his screams. How is an orgasm even possible is a question for another day – and this ranked top three, no kidding. There’s a vague feeling of someone nosing the outer shell of his ear with a nose, fingers running through his hair.

 

“Still alive?”

 

To the twinkle in Steve’s eyes that are boring into his, to the easy smile he’s placed on his lips, Tony groans throatily, “Rosebud. Your fault.”


	20. Chapter 20

How do humans sit at the top of the food chain despite not being the fastest runner or the strongest creature in existence? It’s the brain. The wit. The ability to invent and innovate to overcome difficulties – whatever it is, it’s how plastic they are. How amenable. They’re very trainable. The boundaries of capabilities – so-called comfort zones – are flexibly set. New skills and experiences can be acquired and made routine.

 

What he’s trying to say is, even the most taxing of things can become mundane, given enough time.

 

After two months of waving Steve goodbye every Sunday noon, leaving the curb and climbing into his own Chevrolet gets easier.

 

He yanks Barnes’s call card from the glove compartment and flattens it against his steering wheel. He dials the number, and a gruff voice soon answers, “What d’you want?”

 

“… Is this James Buchanan Barnes? I’m –”

 

There’s a quick bark of laughter. “Stark. Finally.”

 

“Yeah. Me. You know what I want.”

 

“I don’t run a charity house. Meet me at the coffee house in two hours. Let’s hash out the price.”

 

“What price – hey!”

 

Great. The second the line goes dead, Tony chucks his phone across his dash, and watch it slide down onto the rubber floormat and out of sight. He flicks the call card onto the seat, only for it catch the harsh blast of air-conditioning and disappear under the passenger seat.

 

Slapping his gearstick into place, he drives the next forty-five minutes to the coffee house where bad things tend to happen – he’s not dumb, he sees the pattern – scribbles his name furiously in the guestbook as per usual protocol. This time though, Miss Wu herself takes him by the arm and ushers him _away_ from the common sitting area.

 

“He’s ordered a private room for your meeting.”

 

“Who’s he?”

 

She steers him sharply into a hidden alcove where a spiral staircase is. He’s never seen this side of the establishment before, and it looks plainer. The wall is – or used to be – painted brown, but has smidgens of dirt and cobwebs in the corners. Serviceable, but probably inappropriate for business.

 

“Through this door, Mr Stark.”

 

Another unmarked, grey door, like the pantry downstairs. What the heck. He lets himself in and there, in the middle of the room are Barnes and a man, seated around a table playing cards.

 

“Twenty-one! Hah!”

 

“That’s your third twenty-one in a row!”

 

“That will be fifty, Rumlow.”

 

Tony stands where he is. As subtly as he can, he reaches back until his fingers brush against the cold brass of the door handle. He pushes down on it, and yeah, definitely locked. Why is he not surprised?

 

“Hit me! I’ve a good feeling about this, Buck.”

 

Tony clears his throat once.

 

“Twenty fuckin’ three. I’m done.” The man Barnes called “Rumlow” throws a roll of money on the table. “Choke on this.”

 

“Pleasure doing business with you. You coming to the meeting tomorrow?”

 

“Or risk Father shavin’ my ass? Yeah, I’ll be there.”

 

“Be punctual.”

 

“Shaddup.”

 

Rumlow pulls a pile of cards towards him and starts shuffling them. “So, who’s the guy?”

 

“Tony Stark. A reporter from Sacramento Bee.”

 

Tony blinks stupidly as the conversation continue – they haven’t even looked at him, not _once_ since he joined them in the room.

 

“Strange company you keep these days.”

 

Barnes snorts, and _finally_ , he turns to Tony who’s still rooted by the door and curls a finger at him, beckoning him to come closer.

 

“Sit down.”

 

Tony takes his place in the only vacant chair, between Barnes and Rumlow. He keeps his hands off the table – cards, greenbacks and plastic chips still strewn all over it.

 

There’s a Glock under another heap of playing cards.

 

“He’s our key to an untapped customer base.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Rumlow raises a brow. “What customer base is that?”

 

“The horny privileged.”

 

They laugh, uncouth and brash and Tony hopes they don’t see how he’s eyeing the gun with too much interest.

 

“Well, they _are_ a lucrative market. But Father doesn’t want anything to do with them. Not after what happened four years –” Barnes’ eyes flash something different, and Rumlow must’ve caught it. He shoves his cards into a box. “Sorry.”

 

Fingers close over the handle of the Glock and –

 

“He’s a feisty one. Took me a while to train him into obedience.”

 

The cold, barrel of the gun presses into his temple. Tony breathes out shakily, frozen in his chair.

 

“Look at me, Stark.”

 

Look at him? Look at _him?_

 

Tony turns his neck slowly, to the left where the gun is still pointed point-blank at his skull. His lungs constrict when Barnes lowers it, that’s good – only to fist around Tony’s collar and draws him in. Their mouths close over each other – Tony keeps his adamantly shut. His heart is in his throat, and God knows how this is looking to their silent spectator.

 

He gasps when something cuts into his lip, and Barnes smothers him further with the entirety of his face. He pushes Barnes away – so much heavier and muscular than he is, a thuggish built – and holds onto his shoulders.

 

And then, cool air hits his face.

 

“Your new boy toy, huh? Just say so. I don’t judge.”

 

Barnes has the audacity to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’s more than that.”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Rumlow gets up and slips the packet of cards in his back pocket. “You can bring up your business plan in the meeting tomorrow. I just don’t think it’s gonna fly.”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

Rumlow marches his way out of the room, his heavy boots thudding against the floor as he goes. The door closes again, and Tony hears a double click.

 

“So, just you and me,” Barnes says. He kicks an icebox open – there’s an icebox under the table all the while? – and offers Tony a beer. “I’ll trade that kiss – if it’s even one – for this.” He scoots closer, his chair scrapping against the floor.

 

“Obadiah Stane did not drug you. I did.”


	21. Chapter 21

The first image that comes to Tony’s mind is Obadiah’s lecherous grin against the backdrop of the dratted coffee house. And then it’s Obadiah blowing his top off at the police station, Obadiah in the shadows conspiring with thugs, Obadiah watching Steve used and abused on the floor, Obadiah near-shouting and pleading for his innocence –

 

“You set him up,” Tony’s eyes flicker to Barnes’. “Guess he didn’t order the attack in the alley as well.”

 

“He didn’t.”

 

“Did you?”

 

“Did, too.”

 

“Son of a –”

 

Barnes pins his wrist to the table, and in that instant the gun is back against his temple.

 

“You would’ve killed me if you were serious,” Tony barks, and his stomach shrivels when his brain finally catches up to his tongue. He must be mad to challenge the logic of a rabid dog. He’s so going to have his skull blown out –

 

“You want answers? I have answers, and I’m giving them. Keep interrupting and I’ll change my mind.”

 

Tony chews on the inside of his cheeks. If talking sense at gunpoint going to be the new routine?

 

“Steve and his cop buddy were nosing into our operations at the coffee house. It grew from an annoyance to a real concern, so we decided to throw them off the trail. Stane was convenient.”

 

“You made him your scapegoat. Why? What had he done to you?”

 

“Nothing, actually.”

 

“Wrong place, wrong time, huh?”

 

“Unfortunately.” Barnes’ eyes narrowed. “We know his habits. He used to conduct his business at the coffee house, and his clients raised multiple complaints to Security, said Stane got handsy. There wasn’t proof, so no actions were taken. When the cops started showing up, I said, good timing. All we needed to do was to give them a reason.”

 

“You destroyed a man’s life.”

 

“Did I? If only he’d kept his hands to himself. If only you didn’t make that report.”

 

“Why me? Why that alley?” Tony steels himself, his fingers curling into a fist under Barnes’ vice grip. “Why Steve?”

 

“The photographs?”

 

“Why did you do that to him? Wasn’t he your friend?”

 

“Careful, Stark. What happened with Steve is between me and him. And you best don’t talk about the past if you wanna see another sunrise, you understand?”

 

“Why give me the photographs and frame Stane for it?”

 

“… I didn’t order the attack.” At Tony’s frown, he explains, “You understand politics, don’t you? How it is above, so it is underground. My standing in the organisation is a gift and a curse many others secretly covet. Those who ordered the attack – blessed be their souls,” and he smirks, “intended to… _remind_ our leader of my mistakes, and then pulled wool over his eyes by pinning it on our go-to scapegoat, Stane. It backfired.” His grip on Tony tightens to the point of numbness. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

 

“You can say anything you want. You have no proof.”

 

“To you, I’ve only words to offer.”

 

“I don’t write fictions, FYI –”

 

Thumps of footstep emerge from the distance. Barnes suddenly grabs Tony by the bicep and hauls him up, shoving him onto the couch in the corner.

 

“What the –”

 

Barnes’ kissing him again before he knows it. Still every bit rough and unpleasant, and Tony struggles anew. Having more elbow space to work with, his efforts fare better than before, but Barnes can get creative with his threat. “Struggle some more and I’ll knock you out. Don’t test my patience.”

 

The footsteps are getting closer.

 

Him screaming for help is their entertainment for the day, so why bother?

 

Barnes fumble with his zipper and Tony bucks under his weight. Not again, not _again_ –

 

“Stop, please –”

 

A cold hand gropes his crotch –

 

“Get off me!”

 

Barnes slips inside his briefs –

 

“Shut up,” he warns right into Tony’s ear. “And keep your eyes closed. Don’t move.”

 

The door swings open and Barnes pushes him sideway that his head hits the cushion with a satisfying thud. He freezes. There’s a big company with them now – the hair on his nape prickle with tension, and the couch creaks as Barnes gets up to greet them.

 

“Hey, fellas. How can I help you today?”

 

“There’s issue with yesterday’s delivery. Father calls for a meeting.”

 

“Hey, hey, look – we all know who fucked up. Spare me the drama, why don’t ya?”

 

Someone chuckled. “And leave you to your new toy over there in peace, you mean?”

 

Tony’s heart does another skip. He keeps his face impassive, doesn’t dare to twitch the slightest bit. His cock is still hanging out of his pants and he feels colours tainting his cheeks. Just don’t come here –

 

“I know I like you for a reason.”

 

“Two hours, Bucky. Better start movin’. You know how Father’s temper is like lately.”

 

Everyone files out of the room after that, leaving him alone as is. He daren’t move for the next five minutes, counting the seconds in his mind, five sets of sixties until his ears start ringing from the silence. He blinks first, establishing the fact that he’s indeed alone in the room. He pushes himself up with his elbow, and how did he not notice the camera above the door?

 

Shit. They could still be watching him.

 

His fingers tremble as he corrects his briefs and fixes his zipper. When he takes his first step towards the door, something shifts in his crotch. Something small… cutting into his balls as he walks.

 

Barnes has left him a souvenir.


	22. Chapter 22

Tony takes a deep breath. In… and out. In and out. It’s nine, and the moon’s up. Steve texted his safe arrival in L.A. and apologised for not being able to call. Work, he said. All is well, because Tony’s too busy loitering outside of the Sacramento Police Department complex to pick up phone calls.

 

In… and out.

 

Barnes’ parting gift is now in his breast pocket. It’s a sachet of greenish powder. Tony has enough sense not to open the ziplock bag and take a cursory whiff. Could be laundry detergent. Could be poison. It doesn’t exactly come with a label.

 

Tony checks the road for traffic and marches through the front door. He has to know what it is. _How_ to know what it is is the other million-dollar question. Jabbing the “up” button of the elevator, he tries to recall what floor Steve brought them up to so many months ago. The floor where the lab is –

 

“Tony Stark?”

 

Tony whips around and finds himself nose to nose with Sam Wilson. He almost couldn’t recognise him.

 

“Sam. It’s been a while. How are you doing?”

 

Crap. He wanted to do this low key. Why must be bump into a familiar face of all place, of all time?

 

Sam narrows his eyes, obviously not buying into the chirpy greetings. “Where are you headed to?”

 

“I’m looking for a friend.”

 

“Oh? Who? If I know them, I can direct you the way.”

 

“Uh,” he racks his brain for a name. “Nat.” Isn’t that what Steve call her?

 

“Nat? As in, Natasha from crime lab?”

 

“That’s the one! She’s a mutual friend of Steve and mine.”

 

“Steve, huh?” The vaguest hint of a smile grows on his lips. “How’s he doing in L.A.? Sounds like a cool gig he landed there.”

 

“He’s been busy.” The elevator arrives and they file into it. “He comes back every week. It’s a five-ish hours of drive on a good day. I’m thinking of going up there myself after I turn in my assignments with the Bee.” His finger goes to number six on the panel, only to have his wrist pulled back by Sam.

 

“You’re not authorised to be on that floor.”

 

“Oh,” Tony blurts out foolishly. But, it’s where he needed to be. It’s where Nat is. There’s a nice, shiny plaque right beside the button that says “Lab”.

 

“Call her cell instead. Ask her to meet you at the canteen.”

 

“Call her?”

 

Sam pushes the button marked “Canteen” instead. It’s only two floors below the labs. Fine. Plan B: he’ll follow Sam out to the canteen, fakes an upset stomach, hurries to the toilet, and takes the stairs to the sixth floor.

 

“Yeah, call her.” And Sam clamps down upon his shoulder, laughing good-heartedly as he steers them both out of the elevator, past the queue of hungry police officers to a quiet corner table. “Sit down, Tony,” he takes the opposite chair. “And no more bullshit. Why are you really here?”

 

Tony swallows thickly. He hasn’t been _that_ conspicuous, has he?

 

“I told you. I’m here to see Nat. Haven’t met her in ages –”

 

“You don’t know Nat, I guarantee you.” Tony’s throat catches. “Funny, Nat and I just had coffee this morning, and we were talking about Steve and you. And she asked what was your name again because Steve doesn’t usually refer to you as such, if he ever mentions you at all. I don’t mean to imply anything by that,” Sam adds quickly. “He’s a very private person.”

 

Tony huffs air, defeated. “You got me.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“To see Nat.”

 

“I’ll have you returned to the lobby if you don’t –”

 

“I’m telling you the truth. I need to see Nat.”

 

“What for?”

 

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. He takes out the ziplock bag from his pocket. “I need her to take a look at this.”

 

“… She’s SPD, not your friendly neighbourhood CSI officer. The resources and facilities here are the government’s, you can’t stroll through the door and demand us to run errands for you.”

 

“I know. I understand, but this is important. I need to speak with her at least, see if she has other ways – _legal_ ways – for me to identify this.”

 

Sam’s eyes flicker to the bag of powder. “Where did you get that?”

 

“… The guy who drugged me the first time.” That takes Sam completely by surprise. He studies Tony even more intently, sharp brown eyes boring into his forehead. “You have Nat’s number, don’t you? Call her on my behalf? Tell her I need her advice on this.”

 

“… What are you up to?” Tony doesn’t answer. That’s rhetoric. “Do I even want to know about it? Does Steve know about your playing detective?”

 

“No.”

 

“I do _not_ want to know about it.” Sam places a call on his phone, and just like that in the next minute, he got his wish. A gorgeous redhead saunters down the aisle towards them, her shoulder-length hair bobbing with every step. She slides into a vacant seat next to Sam, and immediately scrutinises Tony with unblinking eyes. For some reasons, she reminds him of Maria. It’s terrifying.

 

“Hi,” she says eventually. “Natasha Romanoff.”

 

“Tony Stark,” he shakes her hand. “Of Sacramento Bee.”

 

“Steve doesn’t mention you’re a reporter.”

 

“I am.” He slides the packet over to her side of the table. “I got this from a source.” He looks pointedly at Sam, making sure he won’t attempt to _clarify_ that statement. “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s an important piece of evidence.”

 

“Evidence?” She turns the bag around. “What are you working on?”

 

“An underground network of drug manufacturing and trafficking.” Two sets of eyes lock on his forehead again. “Their products are seasonal, so I heard. This could be a specimen.” He’s selling this hard, way too hard. It’s his best guess, a hook for a favour.

 

“It could be nothing,” Nat counters dismissively. “I can’t run your sample here. Doing so is a misuse of state resources.”

 

“I understand that. I’m not asking you to run the tests _here._ But I’m out of options. I need this tested in confidentiality, and I need it ASAP. Where do you suggest I bring this to?”

 

Nat and Sam exchange a look. Tony has a bad feeling of what they might be communicating via telepathy –

 

“You know, Steve never mentioned this before…”

 

“We don’t share the details of our work. I’m accountable to the Bee, and this case is… there’s _something_ going on here. This,” he points at the bag, “might tell me what they’re making and selling. That’s a question I _need_ answered.”  


Nat shrugs. “I’ve a friend working in a private lab not too far from here. They handle smaller volume of samples per day, so she might be able to queue yours for the NMR. For a fee, of course.”

 

“… Fee, as in, money?”

 

“Yeah. _I’m_ not paying for your test.”

 

No free lunches, huh. But between this kind of fee and _that_ kind of fee? He nods once. “Deal.”


	23. Chapter 23

That wasn’t so bad. He could still afford next month’s house rental after all. Maybe he _should_ consider moving in with Steve at the rate he’s spending for this goddam investigation.

 

“Give me a couple of days.”

 

“That fast?” Tony is expecting something olong the line of a week. It’s an unknown substance. Gil Grissom and gang might be able to crack a case like this in under an hour, but this is real life, and real life is rarely this convenient.

 

“Yeah. You see this baby over here?” Tony cranes his head over the counter to peek at whatever the lady is pointing at. “RapidFire 360 for high-throughput screening. Ninety-six samples at one time. And it’s hooked to our awesomely extensive database. So yup, we’re good to go.”

 

But, he isn’t willing to part way with all of his hard-earned spoil, so he asks if it’s OK to donate a stingy fraction for the testing. They’re cool with that, so Tony folds his ziplock bag into his pocket and skips away to meet Rhodey for lunch.

 

“How was your meeting with the boss?” Rhodey asks in between slices of salmon, drizzled lightly over with yuzu concentrate.

 

“You mean, yesterday?”

 

“Yeah. I know you guys had a short one. How did it go? Any breakthroughs yet?”

 

“Oh, there are breakthroughs, all right.” Tony flags a waitress and orders sake, and then pointedly ignores Rhodey’s why-are-you-drinking look.

 

“It’s only midday.”

 

“So? They still serve booze at lunch, don’t they?” Tony tilts his head back as he throws a cupful of warm sake down his throat. “I got contacts. I got merchandises. It’s been swell.”

 

“You got contacts? Who?”

 

“… Someone pretty high up.”

 

“I suppose he enjoys handing out pamphlets in his free time? ‘Top secret information on page three! Don’t want to miss it!’”

 

Tony gulps his second cup of sake. “These assholes don’t do things for shit and giggles. I know. We have a bargain going on. I think.”

 

Rhodey pushes his plate away. “I don’t know if I wanna hug you, or throttle you. This sounds like suicide to me.”

 

“You’re overthinking this. I even managed to uh, procure the mother of all drugs. I think. Just sent it to the lab for identification.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“Yeah. Wow.”

 

“No, Tony. There’s way too many ‘I think’ in the last two-and-a-half minutes.”

 

And there goes his third cup of sake. “I reported all these at the meeting. And what do you know? Boss gave me – yup, he looked at me just like this, just like you right now.” He’s a tad too tipsy to empathise with the furrow, and the way Rhodey is tracking his every fidget and wave of his hand. “There was silence in the room for a good minute. I thought he was gonna throw me out of the office or something, ‘cause… you know, if this isn’t a snail-paced progress or what.”

 

“Did he?”

 

“Did he what?”

 

“Throw you out of the office.”

 

“… No. He said, ‘Dismiss until further notice’, looked at me some more and left. Didn’t even slam the door.” Tony picks up his chopstick and prods at his eel. “I think he’s going soft.”

 

“How are you and Steve anyway?”

 

The truck driver’s gear change in the conversation is most welcomed. He doesn’t want to mention Barnes in the slightest.

 

“We’re fine. He’s been busy, I’ve been busy. He comes back every weekend. I think I should go up to meet him instead, starting this week. It’s not exactly an easy drive.”

 

It’s only Tuesday though, so in the meantime – and as it’s always been – they have to turn to the next best thing to satiate their manly pining for each other.

 

“Say something dirty, come on.”

 

“Steve,” Tony takes hold of the phone that he’s wedged between his ear and shoulder. His neck is cramping. “Seriously?”

 

“You’re not usually this shy. If I recall, you tried to make a sentence out of the seven dirty words.”

 

“I’m still stuck at ‘cocksucker’. It’s not very compatible with what I have in mind.”

 

“I want to hear you, Tony. You’re folding the laundry, aren’t you? That can wait. Why don’t you come to bed?”

 

Tony irons his pair of socks with his palm. “Not tonight, Steve.”

 

There’s a rustle on Steve’s side of the phone, followed by a deep, almost-there groan.

 

“Steve, I’m sorry for sounding like an ass, but it’s not a good time right now.”

 

The rustling stops. “Did something happen?”

 

“Nothing out of the blue happened. It’s been a long day, and I don’t think I can get this up.”

 

“… Medical issue?”

 

“No, most definitely not,” Tony huffs indignantly. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” Steve’s sounds like he’s stifling a yawn himself. Even then, how is he still thinking of having phone sex when Tony’s close to dropping face down on his pillow and snore himself to oblivion?

 

“Hey, I’m thinking of meeting you in L.A. this weekend, so you don’t have to drive down this time.”

 

“Oh? What gives?”

 

“Well, you’ve been there for a good two-month-ish now, and I still haven’t visited.”

 

“… We can officiate the bed Saturday night.”

 

“You’re an ass, that’s what you are.”

 

“By the way, did Maria message you about the second toy?”

 

Tony drops his briefs on the floor and bends down to collect it. On the way up, he bumps his head on the edge of the coffee table. He isn’t sure if he’s cussing at his mishap, or Maria. Might as well make it both, just to be sure.

 

“Nope. No messages from the God Emperor. No wonder my eyelid’s been jumping the entire night.”

 

“She’s delivering it to you one of these days before Saturday.”

 

“So, shouldn’t she be talking to me direct to check on when I’ll come over to your place? I mean, I _am_ physically here, in this county, you know.”

 

“She wants to make sure I know how to operate the machine.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Please. What can be worse after the sound?”


	24. Chapter 24

Then, comes Wednesday…

 

“Huh. Guess I spoke too soon.”

 

Tony helps Maria heave a _thing_ onto her trolley and rolls it through Steve’s front door. It’s all very discreet. The box that comes with it is a plain, brown cardboard. There’s not even a “this side up” or “fragile” printed anywhere.

 

“What’s inside, Maria?”

 

She slams her trunk shut and wipes her palms on her pants. “Your homework.”

 

“Come on. Not a clue? I don’t care much for surprises, to be honest.”

 

“Yeah? How was it the last time?”

 

“… It was a shocker.”

 

Maria snorts and slinks back into the driver’s seat. “I’m still waiting for your report, Stark. My buddies can’t wait to read ‘em.” She waves at him as her car glides by, and Tony scowls until she’s rounded the corner. Left to the company of himself and the mysterious gift, he stares at it, believing he has X-ray vision so that he can see right through the packaging… nobody says he can’t touch it, so what’s stopping him from unwrapping it?

 

His phone buzzes. A new e-mail.

 

_Your report is as attached. Weird stuff you got there._

 

There’s a PDF and a PowerPoint document attached. Tony downloads everything, tapping his finger on the coffee table as he waits for them to load on his phone. He’s so close to finding out what’s so magical about this crack that Barnes’ been peddling, that’s been driving people insane for more –

 

“… SB909?”

 

What on _earth_ is SB909 – they’re supposed to identify this crap and not come back with a nickname that doesn’t make a lick of sense.

 

There’s a personal message embedded in the PDF.

 

_SB909 isn’t found in any databases. This powder is a mixture of that, plus some generic hallucinogen. Prelim structural analyses indicate similarities to experimental compounds developed as telomerase activators. None of these ever made it to phase one of clinical trial._

That’s something. It’s also a lot research, but still, something.

 

He needs his computer for the ensuing heavy duty read-ups but it’s an hour drive to his place from Steve’s, which is why he’s driving above speed limit to his office at five o’clock, much to Rhodey’s astonishment as he flies past the guy at the punch card machine.

 

Ducking his head to hide behind his cubicle, he prompts Google for “telomerase”. He has everything under the digital sun opened – if it so much as whispers “telomerase”, Tony has it before him. Wikipedia, blogs, ScienceMag, hell Tumblr, just name it.

 

And he’s hooked to what he’s reading, hasn’t even made it past paragraph two.

 

_Telomerase is an enzyme that adds nucleotide sequence at the end of the chromosomes…_

_The Hayflick limit: with each cell division, their telomeres shorten, until a critical length is reached when senescence is triggered…_

Senescence?

 

_When senescence is triggered, cells exit their proliferative cycle permanently and can no longer divide into new cells._

_Gene therapy to lengthen telomeres successfully reinstate youthfulness to aged cells…_

_Improved functions… rewinding biological clock…_

_Immortality._

* * *

 

Tony doesn’t go home that night. He has stacks of documents printed – open access journal articles, details on Geron and BioViva USA, _legally founded_ pharma companies specialising in the sciences of aging, and some speculative essays written by academicians on their thoughts about prolonging lifespan. So many questions racing through his mind. He’s come across the Philosopher’s Stone – thank you, Harry Potter – everybody’s heard about the Fountain of Youth. Peter Pan? They’re all fantasies. Lies people have been telling themselves in the form of myths and fairy tales because they’re too much of a coward to look at Death in the eye.

  
Oh, he’s talking big now. He might piss himself when _his_ time comes.

 

Tony thumbs along the corners of his papers. This is either a pile of sacred knowledge, the answer to everything mankind covets, or a heap of bull with a side of shit.

 

His desk quakes a little when his phone rings. Who has the audacity to call him at freaking midnight –

 

Steve.

 

“Hey, Special Agent. What’s up?”

 

They’ve established a routine when it comes to phone calls. Like a dance. Steve always starts because he’s the one with all the vocational excitement. Tony only has paperwork to talk about. Sure, he has his fair share of tales but eh, some things ought to be taken to the grave. It comes across as weird at best when Steve keeps mum over the line.

 

“Steve?”

 

Maybe Steve’s sleeping – the good soldier he is – and accidentally speed dials his number. It… could happen. Never mind that Steve’s very careful with where he places his electronics –

 

“Sam called.”

 

Of course he did.

 

“Yeah? What did he say?”

 

“Said you bought drugs.”

 

That is wrong on so many levels. If these are the cards he’s dealt with, he’s playing them to win. “For work. Not for personal consumption.”

 

“From who?”

 

“I gave them my word they’d keep their anonymity before we struck that deal, Steve. I can’t divulge that information.”

 

Technically, he didn’t buy them. Technically, they weren’t even drugs. But Sam didn’t know, and so shouldn’t Steve.

 

“Are you still working on the case?”

 

“… Yes. I never stopped.”

 

Steve’s sigh is weighted with equal part resignation and troubled.

 

“I know what I’m doing, Steve.”

 

“I’m not… I don’t want to _control_ you. I don’t. You make your own decisions, and I respect that.”

 

“… Thank you.”

 

Tony suddenly feels so tired, so sleepy that he wants to go home and lose himself in Steve’s bed, under Steve’s sheets, surrounded by Steve’s pillows. Yet there’s so much work to do. Always something else awaits.

 

“I want you safe. It’s all I ask.”

 

It’s what Tony can’t guarantee.


	25. Chapter 25

Steve doesn’t call again the rest of the week, so Tony pretends it doesn’t affect him. Maybe Steve’s busy with work. Tony can deal with that. He’s knee-deep in his own, and he stays longer in the office if only to forget about the mess that is his relationship, until Steve’s message that Friday evening reminds him that they’re still in this together.

 

_I’ve missed you. Are you still coming over tomorrow? S._

It takes hard work maintaining stuff, and this one takes two to make it work. Tony texts back.

 

_Been thinking about you. I’m sorry for being a dick again. T._

And then, his phone sings this ring tone he’s set to Steve’s number. It’s Black Sabbath’s, it’s cheesy and old-fashioned, just the way Steve likes it.

 

“Tony, it’s me.”

 

“Hey.” He takes a deep breath and puts his pen on his desk. “Look, this is really childish of me – I’m sorry for not calling.”

 

“I should’ve. I’m sorry. Are you… it’s Friday night. Are you out? I don’t want to disturb if –”

 

“It’s OK. I’m at work, actually.”

 

“It’s nine o’clock. Crunch time?”

 

“Not really.” He swivels his chair to have his back against his computer. His office is dark, void of presence save for his. The recessed fluorescent lighting from the corridor spills into his corner on the floor. He doesn’t realise it’s that late already. “I’ve been working remotely for a while, figured I’d clock in some time at the office. It’s fine,” he yawns. “We can talk.”

 

“Are you coming up tomorrow?”

 

He frowns at the wall. He’s all packed his clothes and another jar of honey to feed Steve’s habit of drinking tea before sleep. Maria’s stupidly huge box is tucked neatly in his trunk. Yeah, he’s ready for the five-hour drive to L.A.

 

“I am. If you’ll have me.”

 

Then, Steve goes quiet. Is it something he said again, because that’s not unusual – it’s been a bad week, cut him some slack.

 

“Steve…”

 

“You shouldn’t have to ask that. Tony, I overstepped that line. I worry, you know I do, but I pried, and we’ve discussed this, and we agreed that –”

 

“That I’ll work my ass off getting to the bottom of this, no matter how high the risks. It doesn’t sit well with you.”

 

“And you don’t give two shits about it.”

 

Tony is stunned. “Whoa. Language, Steve. Where did you learn how to talk like that?”

 

“I learned from the best.”

 

Thank you for the compliment, and what a relief to have one knot in this partnership unravelled. For the moment. “Listen, Maria towed in our second toy. Looks pretty hardcore.”

 

“Yeah? Why?”

 

“It’s bulky and heavy, for one.”

 

“Oh God, Maria…”

 

“Why? What is it?”

 

“Have you opened it?”

 

“Nope. I mean, yes, I took a peek and it looked like disassembled scaffolding, and the manual is as thick as a phonebook, so no, I didn’t go through it.” Tony swivels his chair around to face his desk again. “Should I be worried?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Fantastic. Looking forward.”

 

Seven hours of sleep later, Tony’s revs up his car and hauls ass non-stop to L.A. and _finally,_ for the first time ever, he sets his foot in Steve’s dorm, an entire apartment unit catered to house out-of-station personnel. It’s comfortable and of reasonable spaciousness, and because this is Steve’s, it speaks of the same Spartan simplicity in décor and functions as with his Sacramento’s home.

 

The home Tony’s occupying more and more frequently.

 

“This is nice,” Tony comments airily when the silence stretches. He feels the need to fill it up with words.

 

“The wall’s a bit thin, and the water pressure isn’t very consistent, but yes, it’s a nice place.”

 

Steve’s leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He smiles languidly at Tony, and doesn’t make to snuggle or hug or kiss or any lazy attempt to hold him. Considering how touchy-feely he was just a week ago, Tony’s heart sink a bit at the cold distance. There’s something else, too. The bags under Steve’s eyes are noticeably grey, and so are the lines in his forehead and temples. There’s unspoken weariness in the way he’s appraising Tony from across the sitting room.

 

“Anyway,” Tony exclaims all of a sudden, “wanna check out Maria’s stuff?”

 

“Is it still in your car?”

 

“Yeah. She left me a foldable trolley, also in the trunk. Let me go get it –”

 

“I’ll get it. You sit down and rest. Keys?”

 

It’s not a short walk to his car. Apparently, he didn’t have clearance to enter the premise – go figure – and mentioning Steve’s name didn’t help. Only authorised family members are allowed to park their vehicles, a deal breaker in other word. He turned his car around, heaved his bag over a shoulder and hiked his way back to the apartment.

 

With Steve on a not-so-blind search for his car, Tony stretches across the couch and sighs. He can fall asleep right here, right now in three, two –

 

Wait, he hasn’t explored this place. He gets up and checks out the kitchen, pours himself a glass of cold water from the fridge, takes a peek at Steve’s bedroom and grins at the queen-sized bed, then retraces his steps to the sitting room.

 

There’s a plain, silver, steel box as big as a footstool by the coffee table. A jarring addition, as the rest of the house is of earthy brown or moss green hues. It isn’t like Steve to buy furniture that straight on clashes with the theme of a room. Tony chalks it up to Steve being artistic or OCD, whichever, and he kneels before the box.

 

He pries the lid up, and is surprised to find it not budging.

 

It’s locked. There’s a tiny keyhole on the side. Why would anybody lock anything in a house he lives in by himself?


	26. Chapter 26

“I’m back.”

 

Tony helps Steve unload the cargo from the trolley, and settles on the couch a neat distance away as Steve busies himself with the unpacking. He watches Steve place stainless steel tubing after tubing on the floor, and mentally calculates how much all this would be priced as scraps.

 

“By the way,” Steve pulls out a set of wrenches and screwdrivers that come attached. “Do you want to do this now? I understand if you need some time to digest this.”

 

“Digest this? Digest what?”

 

Steve’s sporting a half-exasperated smirk and pulls out two items from the box. Like a magician working with his top hat, he pulls out not a bunny, but the ridiculously thick manual that says, “Gigolo F-Machine” – that puts a crease in between Tony’s eyes – and an eight-inch black dildo.

 

“Oh. Holy _shit_ –”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Tony scoots three yards back until his back is flush against the wall. “What the hell is _that_?”

 

“It says so on the manual, Tony.”

 

“Yeah, it’s not very informative, is it?”

 

“It’s a fucking machine.”

 

“… That’s what the ‘F’ stands for? Oh, that’s it. I’m done playing Mr Nice Guy, I’m gonna let out the air from her tyres, and splash red paint over her windscreen, for God’s sake –”

 

“Hey, it’s OK,” and Steve is suddenly crouching before him, steadying him by his elbows. Tony looks up but can’t stop glancing at the apparatus that – he admits – terrifies him, so Steve leans sideway to shield his view from it. “Look at me.”

 

He complies, but not before letting out a stream of nervous giggle and babble. “I’m so screwed. No pun intended.”

 

“Take it easy. We don’t have to do this now. Maybe tonight? Or tomorrow morning –”

 

“Oh yeah, tomorrow morning. My butt will thank me during the drive back home.”

 

“What is it that you’re uncomfortable with?”

 

Tony eyes travel an inch to the right again. It’s all in the subconscious, and he sees nothing but a sliver of Steve’s earlobe. “The concept of… well, a machine pounding into me is… fine. I think. But that dildo is ridiculous.”

 

Steve does a non-committal nod.

 

“What’s your plan, anyway? Maria contacted you about this before she sent me this thing, didn’t she?”

 

“No. She asked about the sound and that was it. But, I had a suspicion when you mentioned a bulky item.”

 

“Great. So, you’ve used this before, then.”

 

“… I had. I warned you, Maria’s choice of toys can get pretty extreme.”

 

“OK. OK, I think my heart isn’t bursting out of my ribcages yet. I think I can come to term with this.” Let’s face it, he will _never_ be able to pre-empt Maria’s idea of “extreme”, or kink, and if this is only item number two, he hopes number three will be a guillotine. Might as well. “So, what’s your plan? You’re gonna assemble this and, uh,” he swallows thickly, “affix that plastic dick onto what I imagine is a rotor, and go to town with it?”

 

Steve inches closer. “Not really. That’ll hurt you.” He inches closer still, his breath swirling with Tony’s. “We have all day. We’ll take this slow. I’ve missed you.” Plump lips capture Tony’s in a swift swoop, holding it until something twerks in the crotch of his pants. “I’ve wanted you. You want to know my plans?”

 

Tony can only nod.

 

“Permission, Tony?” Steve all but whispers. His blue eyes are hooded, fixated on Tony’s chin, until he suddenly looks up, the gaze burning.

 

“Yes.”

 

The same plump lips litter measured kisses along the ridge of his neck. Steve’s hand’s a claw against his shoulder, fingernails digging into the flesh, trembling with desires or restrain. Tony can’t tell. He turns his head to his side and lets Steve have his way. His earlobe, his nape, his collarbone, he lets Steve ravish all of that. And when the first three buttons on his shirt come undone, Tony stills his wrist.

 

He almost lets go when Steve suddenly pauses his ministrations. This is bad behaviour, no? Not Sub-ish.

 

“What’s wrong?” Steve’s fingers dig deeper into his shoulder.

 

“I uh, I stink. I’m positive about that – I should go shower.”

 

“Take off your belt, pull down the zipper.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“I want to see you.”

 

Even the simplest task is made difficult with Steve nibbling at him and clawing across his chest. His hard-on sits cramped under his briefs, and he dares not touch it no matter how much he desires it.

 

“Pull it down.”

 

Tony tugs at the gutter and lets his erection stand between his thighs. He’s spent too much time in the office, paid too much attention at work he gave little to no heed to his body, and Steve’s scent is driving him up the wall.

 

“So needy.” Steve claims his lips once more, ravenous. His hands slip under Tony’s arms, clutching at his flank so hard it pinches. “What do you need, Tony?” Steve suddenly comes to rest on his inner thigh. So close. Tony bucks his hip up. “Say it. What do you need?”

 

“You,” he gasps. “You, Steve.”

 

Steve drags his fingers along the flesh, blunt fingertips with a hint of nails scratching along the lines of his pelvis. They tangle with his pubic hair, pulling and teasing, reminding him that all he needs to do is ask. Maybe.

 

“Touch me, Steve.”

 

Steve noses the side of his head. His hand is still adamantly _not_ where it’s supposed to be.

 

“Please.”

 

“No.” A barely-there growl mars his voice. “Touch yourself, if you want it.”

 

They’ve done this dance so many times Tony doesn’t bother to play down his desperations. He hikes his knees and grips himself firmly, and at the first slip of a careless moan, Steve’s all over him again.

 

“I’ll have you showered and prepared for the rest of the evening, Tony. I’ll have you fed and watered.” Steve’s caresses go everywhere – the dip of his clavicle, the ridge of his sternum, the taut pull of his stomach when his dick jerks with pleasure. “I want to savour this. I’ll fuck you in time,” and Tony’s toes curl, “after you’ve screamed yourself hoarse on that machine. I’ll make you mine, Tony.” He swallows again. Steve has splayed his palm right over his heart, pushing him against the wall, pinning him in place. His heart drums maddeningly against Steve’s hand. They both feel the beats.

 

“Mine.”


	27. Chapter 27

After that, Steve doesn’t talk to Tony anymore. Heck, Steve doesn’t even look his way anymore, not when he walks to the bathroom naked – as per instructed – not when he goes to the kitchenette to pour himself some water. He turns his back against Steve and leans against the sink, counting the street lights lining the highway from his vantage point, and feels the hair on his neck prickle. He glances at the glass cabinet and catches Steve’s reflection watching him.

 

Tony smirks into his cup and drains the water in one go.

 

Still keeping mum, Steve lugs the machine he’s assembled into the bedroom. He keeps the door ajar and Tony wonders if that’s a passive-aggressive invitation to join him there.

 

He waits a bit more – which means, he counts up to four, fuck it – and rolls out the red carpet himself.

 

Steve’s rummaging his drawer for something, his back against the door. The strange contraption, Tony notices, is parked at the foot of the bed. It looks like a microphone stand, a rather low one, although he thinks he can bring it up to waist-height if he adjusts the knob on the side. It looks somewhat incomplete though, the threaded metal stub feels bare and –

 

But of course. That must be where the dildo is screwed onto.

 

Tony clears his throat. He did not drive all the way up here to be given the cold shoulder. “What are you looking for? Maybe I can help?”

 

Steve turns around and dangles _the_ red nylon rope from his hand.

 

“Wow,” Tony purses his lips. “You brought that to L.A.? That’s dedication. Who are you gonna use it on anyway?”

 

“On the bed, Tony.”

 

He clambers onto the bed and sinks headfirst into the pillow. He _so_ regrets asking Steve to do this right now. Sleep is beckoning. Staying awake is torture in its own right –

 

Something slaps smartly against his thigh. “Don’t get too comfortable. Lie on your front.”

 

Tony rolls over once to sprawl all over the bed like a beached whale. He doesn’t give a flying –

 

Steve grabs him by the ankle and _pulls._ Tony feels his bare midriff burn against the sheets, the friction hot and he lifts himself up with his elbows. He yelps when Steve takes his wrists – both of them – and fastens them to his ankles. In under a minute he’s half-kneeling on the bed with his chest flushed against the mattress.

 

“Comfortable?”

 

Sometimes, it pays to be Captain Obvious. “No.”

 

“Can you breathe?”

 

“… Not really.”

 

Steve slides a pillow under Tony’s chin, and he positions his head at a better angle. At least his nose is not digging into cotton.

 

“Better?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Safeword?”

 

“Banana.”

 

Turns out, Steve’s nowhere close to done. With the extra length of the rope, he loops it around Tony’s calves and tethers each to opposite ends of the bed frame. A hand slips under his stomach and waist, manoeuvring him into an impossibly embarrassing posture, the one that has his butt up high in the air, his anus spread out for easy access.

 

Tony flexes his hands and tests them against his bonds. “I must look lovely like this.”

 

Steve trails his knuckles along Tony’s inner thigh, leaving nervous goosebumps in its wake. There’s no teasing when it goes right up to cup his balls. “Have you washed yourself?”

 

Everything’s been purged and scrubbed. “Yeah. Ready whenever you are, Steve.”

 

“Remember this?”

 

Tony groans at the sight of the rubber cage for cocks that Steve’s brandished before of his face. “Can I say no to using that?”

 

“Only if you use your safeword.” Steve’s hand on his flaccid dick is all clinical and to the point. He’s still soft even with the toy hugging his length. “Are you saying it?”

 

“… No.”

 

“I was saving this for later, when we’re back in Sacramento but now’s as good as any.” Steve’s holding up a black, slim bottle.

 

“… Too dark to read the label here. What’s that?”

 

“Numbing gel.”

 

“You mean, for my…?”

 

“I figured since anal penetration gets overwhelming for you most of the time, this should take away some of the edge. I’m not sure if this formula suits you.”

 

There’s only one way of knowing, is there? Tony hears the goop being spurted and he waits with a fluttering heart. Steve’s gentle – as gentle as a finger can be when prodding an ass – and the coolness of the gel sends shivers up his spine.

 

“Tell me if it burns or itches.”

 

The slick finger continues its sliding in and out of him. After a while, it burns cold – so odd – but he decides to suck it up and lets Steve continue with his work. When the second finger circles the rim, he tenses, and at that exact moment the cage chooses to come to life. Tony flinches at the collage of sensations. It’s been too long since his body is tested this way.

 

“Safeword?”

 

“… No,” Tony grits out.

 

“You want this.”

 

The second finger breaks through the barrier. Tony jerks in his ropes and ignores the knots biting into his flesh. There is no pain or discomfort by now, only a vague coolness as Steve labours to loosen the muscles up. What then will this amount to, if he’s not going to feel a thing when Steve takes him? He wants Steve as is, pain and all.

 

A thin sheen of sweat covers his body. The cage vibrates around his cock, Steve’s free hand fondling his balls, more prying inside him – his body feels is, responds to it, but it’s not enough to steal his mind from sleep. He closes his eyes – Steve’s not going to know – but a hard slap over his buttocks wrenches his from the void.

 

“You feel this?”

 

Tony can’t see it, but he knows it’s the black dildo that comes with Maria’s machine. With it pressing this closely against his entrance, he swallows hard, and tries not to squeak when Steve eases it in. There are tiny bumps decorating the plastic rod. On any other night he would be begging Steve to yank it out, but with the numbing gel working its magic, the whole exercise suddenly seems bearable.

 

Exciting, even.

 

“I’m turning this on. Anytime you want me to stop, use your safeword. Do you understand me, Tony?”

 

“… Yes.”

 

And Steve flicks the switch up.


	28. Chapter 28

Tony exhales nervously. This is kiddie play. The plastic dildo slides ever so slowly in and out of him, like a warm up, stretching him nicely while staying entirely within his comfort zone. He eases his death grips around his ankles and breathes, and counts at the sluggish seconds at being teased. That’s it, just teasing. Steve has taken the time to prep him properly, and the numbing gel is awesome.

 

Steve combs his clean fingers through Tony’s hair for what must be a complimentary scalp massage. Tony almost grins into his pillow when the fingers grow taut and Steve clutch a fistful of his hair. He tugs at it once, forcing Tony’s head up. His throat is exposed, bobbing when he struggles, and both dildo and cage vibrates twice as hard.

 

Whatever cussing Tony is about to spew dies in his lungs. He squeezes his eyes as plastic pummels into him. It’s not painful – not yet? – only a distinct sense of detachments in those repeated motions.

 

“Tony?”

 

He blinks and looks directly at Steve, still impassive on the exterior but the fact that he interrupts the scene to ask how Tony’s doing? Steve doesn’t say it – the question mark latching to the sound of his name is all implied. Tony realises he’s been quiet for too long.

 

“I’m OK.”

 

“Roll your hip, slowly. Get into the right position.”

 

“The right position? How?”

 

“You’ll know when it hits. Move slowly, or you’ll risk tearing something.”

 

Steve fiddles with the remote control again until Tony feels the dildo slow down a notch. Is it even safe to wriggle around with that thing inside him? Putting his confidence in Steve’s experience and the integrity of his sphincter on the line, he straightens up his back and curls his hip to the left, to the right – in whatever direction to whatever angle that is permissible in his bondage.

 

“You know,” Tony mutters eventually after a minute of gyrating, “some tips would be helpful.” He hisses when he backs up too deeply into the dildo. He slumps forward and fall face-first into the pillow, Steve holding him tightly over the shoulders.

 

The dildo stops completely.

 

“Just a sec, sorry.”

 

It’s time like this that makes him hyperaware of how lousy he is in bed as a lover, a Sub and a partner. He feels heat evaporate off his naked back and cheeks, and Steve is so patient lending him precious time to collect himself.

 

“OK, turn it on.”

 

The pressure feels different. The barest hint of deep-seated excitement twists in his abdomen. He stills himself, wondering if this is the “right” position Steve mentioned just now – then the dildo hits him _hard._

 

He sputters into the pillows, not quite in control of the sounds escaping his lips. This is good, this reminds of Steve fucking him –

 

He’s leaking precum into the sheets.

 

“Steve, I’m close –”

 

“No.”

 

The dildo goes dead, the cage around his cock comes off – Tony feels like throwing a fist in Steve’s general direction, he was right _there –_

 

A loud tick resounds in the bedroom when Steve switches the machine on and hikes it all the way up to near max speed. Tony can’t even scream – it’s literally fucking him into bed, mercilessly, continuously. Only gears and screws can do this. The earliest hint of wetness stains his eyes. This is the first time he feels like spilling his prostate all over from anal stimulation alone. His cock, so close to eruption hasn’t even been touched by Steve, not once, not since he fixes the cage on it.

 

He wants to come.

 

“Tony, answer me.”

 

What did Steve say?

 

For the second time, the dildo stops. What must’ve been white noise from the machine disappears with it, hurtling the room into radio silence. His own breathing is harsh in his ears. Steve withdraws the entire apparatus, and he hears the squelch of a well-used sex toy being extricated from the depth of his body.

 

Cool air dances all around his abused entrance, and quickly it is plugged with warmth. Extensively probing warmth.

 

Steve is all the way in.

 

He pushes once against Tony, and his hands are like pincers. Fingernails dig into flesh with urgency as Steve seeks his own release.

 

It doesn’t feel like the machine. There’s less speed, less mechatronic interventions, but this is what Tony’s been waiting for. He rolls his hip up, trying to replicate the angle he’s achieved with the machine –

 

“Fuck – Steve, more.”

 

The slapping of balls on balls is disgustingly intimate. Tony sometimes imagines Steve taking him aggressively – like this – and sending him howling to the moon. The real thing – now – is so much more, yet he cannot find the voice to celebrate it.

 

“Tony…”

 

The ropes don’t matter anymore. Tony is locked within his skeleton, savouring Steve.

 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop –”

 

Christ, Steve and his unending stamina –

 

Tony comes so hard his legs _cramp up,_ but like hell if he’s letting that hurt steal his goddam moment. He unloads so completely on the bed, clamping down on Steve so hard that nothing moves in the bedroom for a while but himself. When he lets up, Steve shoves into him, one hand pressing against his back to keep him down.

 

“Steve?”

 

“Am I hurting you?”

 

No, surprisingly. He’s still quite numb down there, so this must be the gel talking.

 

Tony smirks, his face half-buried in his pillow. “Go to town, Steve.”

 

His spent cock sags sadly between his thighs, and Steve working himself to his own climax does nothing for Tony. But when Steve pulses within him, goes taut behind him, Tony too finds bliss.

 

“Five out of five, you think?” he comments airily as Steve finally undoes the knots around his wrists.


	29. Chapter 29

“So.”

 

Steve leans against the door frame with one foot propped up to keep it ajar. It’s time to say bye-bye again, and Tony tries to smile the brightest he could.

 

“I’m thinking of coming here again next Saturday.”

 

“… You want to drive up here?”

 

Here’s the thing about Steve. He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeves. He goes around his business mostly keeping to himself. It takes a lot to get a rise out of him, and that calming presence is God given when romancing the more impetuous like Tony Stark. He speaks with implied eyerolls and silent sighs.

 

“Yeah, I don’t mind.” Tony quirks an eyebrow when Steve casts his eyes to a flowerpot. “Do you?”

 

“… No.” _Now_ only does Steve smile, but it pinches, somehow. “I’ll miss you, Tony.”

 

“Is everything OK?”

 

Maybe it’s the military, or homeland security duties, or an inborn characteristic – _Steve pays attention._ The T-shirt he has on this morning – a faded grey one that he only wears to sleep – is crumpled. Steve doesn’t do crumples. Steve doesn’t tolerate wearing a dark blue sock on one foot, and black on the other. Cups must be arranged with the handles facing inward, angled at an easy forty-five degree.

 

Tony frankly, doesn’t give much fucks. The slight disarray in Steve’s dorm and on his person wouldn’t have stood out, if not for the subtle shift in Steve’s voice, diction, and distance. The whole nine. Their bedtime adventures were amazing. It reduced him to shivers that had nothing to do with the temperature, and weak knees for hours onward. The aftermath sucked, but if this is the price to pay?

 

When Sunday arrives – today – Steve withdraws into his hypothetical cocoon. He almost pours coffee into his bowl of cereal. Tony catches his hand and shoves the milk carton forward instead. It _would_ be nice if his leaving for Sacramento could distract Steve this much.

 

But, he knows it isn’t.

 

“Anything you want to talk about?” Tony offers first. When was the last time Steve bitch about something? He gets, this is a new job in a new place, away from home. These stuffs have impacts.

 

Steve’s forehead knits together, and he does it again, shifting his gaze from a flowerpot to a random signpost, to the guard house – anywhere but Tony who’s standing right _there_ in front of him. He chews his cheeks, he grits his teeth, and no words, not one syllable flit through his lips.

 

“Anything at all, Steve. I’m a _fantastic_ listener.”

 

“… I wish I could, Tony.” He glances at the door. “God, I wish I could.”

 

“OK. If you couldn’t, maybe you shouldn’t.” And Tony pulls Steve into a manly, crushing hug. “Maybe they bug this place or something. You say one word about your work and bam! Can’t have that, can we?”

 

“No.”

 

“I’ll tell you what,” Tony peels himself off before the neighbours get curious. “I can take two days off work. You know I can work from home – anywhere, in fact – as long as there’s WiFi I can poach.”

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“Because my boss will miss my face if I don’t show up tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you. I’m fine. Work. You know how that is.”

 

“Figured as much.”

 

Tony takes two steps forward and basks under the afternoon sun. “Time flies these days. It’ll be Saturday again before we know it.”

 

The traffic is smooth and he’s coasting the road to “Highway to Hell” when his phone lights up with a message alert. It’s a jumble of numbers he’s committed to memory – there are no names attached to it, nothing to give away the fact that it’s James Barnes on the other end.

 

With a heavy heart that’s beating too fast, he stops at the nearest gas station and pulls up by the public washroom.

 

_We’re initiating newbies tonight. You’re invited._

Tony instinctively looks over his shoulders. Basically, a gathering of some sorts? He types back:

 

_Where?_

Think of the people who will be present. Faces, names, _nicknames_. He’ll know who’s who, the big wigs and the lackey. They’ll all be his LinkedIn buddies.

 

_Come to the coffee house._

 

Tony doesn’t remember how he got to the coffee house later that evening. He knows how _fast_ he was going to get there in time. He almost broke the glass door swinging it open with so much enthusiasm, briefly pausing to catch his breath as Ms Wu comes to collect him.

 

“They’re waiting for you.”

 

“They are? Anyway, I’m here as an, uh, _observer_ , so –”

 

“We know. It’s not a problem. Follow me, Mr Stark.”

 

Instead of going through the alcove behind the bar, instead of going upstairs via the spiral staircase, Ms Wu leads him _downstairs_ instead. It’s a mad maze in here. It doesn’t even look all that big from outside –

 

“Wait here. The guests will arrive soon.”

 

“OK. Thanks.”

 

But, there _are_ people in here already. The guy Barnes played cards with – what’s his name, Rumlow? – is sipping scotch on the couch. His shark-like grin makes Tony all jittery, but there’s no backing out now. Like a gazelle cornered, he steps sideway along the wall, making his presence as insignificant as possible, the doorknob within reach, just in case.

 

Rumlow was a rowdy man, wasn’t he? He handled playing cards like guns – and there _are_ guns littering the low table he’s using as a footstool – but he’s quiet this time. It’s unnerving, and it doesn’t help that there are three others – Tony doesn’t recognise any – prowling the perimeter.

 

Tony is _not_ flattered by their attention.

 

He wishes the voice he’s projecting come across as unafraid. “Bucky called me. Said you guys are initiating new members tonight?” He nods casually at Rumlow. “Looking forward.”

 

“We can do some chit-chatting in the meantime. Bucky’s friends are our friends, yes boys?” And Rumlow scoots over to the right, leaving a big enough spot for Tony by his side. He pats the cushion. “Sit down, Stark.”

 

As he marches confidently towards the couch, he sees his reflection in the liquor cabinet pasty and ruffled. There’s a slouch in his shoulders that screams pansy, that makes him want to hightail and lock himself in his car.

 

“How do you know Bucky? Not very friendly, that guy. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke.”

 

“Well, we were at the games…”

 

Rumlow’s eyes narrowed and Tony forces out a chuckle. “Just pulling your leg, pal. He’s a... well.”

 

Shit. He should’ve thought this through eons ago.

 

“Well?” Rumlow beckons for one of the men standing guard, and he comes over bringing a crystal decanter and an empty glass.

 

“Barnes was a client,” Tony blurts out.

 

“A client of?”

 

“A club downtown. I’m afraid I can’t share the details with you. We value our guests’ privacy.”

 

“We know _exactly_ the kind of club he goes to.” And everyone breaks out in raucous laughter. The glass, now half-filled with brandy is offered to Tony.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Rumlow takes his glass of scotch and raises it. “To Bucky, good man.”

 

“To Bucky.”

 

And Rumlow tosses the remainder of his drink down his throat. Tony stares at his own. This is a bad idea. A really bad idea. When Rumlow wipes his chin with the back of his hand, his mouth twisting to an expectant, lopsided grin, when he kicks at the Glock on the coffee table with the tip of his boot, Tony relents.

 

He drinks his brandy.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for non-con touching. This one is not particularly plot-heavy, save for Barnes' appearance towards the end. Plot continues in the next chapter :)

“I know Bucky for almost ten years. That’s a long time to call any man a friend.” Rumlow holds his empty glass out for a refill of scotch. “My brother.”

 

“You guys seem tight.”

 

“Yeah? Does he talk about me with you?”

 

Tony musters a faint, upward tweak in his lips. “Not really. He’s a private person.”

 

“That, he is. He’s family, and we look after one another, you understand?”

 

Yes, Sir. Milos Masaryk said Amen to that every night.

 

“Crystal.”

 

“Good. ‘Cause it’ll be _unfortunate_ for those who mean harm to him.” Rumlow suddenly raises his arm and Tony is so close to flinching, when Rumlow suddenly splits into a grin, ear to ear, his half-filled glass hovering before his eyes. “To Anthony Stark. I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but I drink to your health!”

 

That must be the alcohol talking.

 

He can’t avoid this. The brandy burns on his tongue and throat, and he thinks of stopping at one sip. The less he drinks, the less addled he gets. Rumlow points at the glass, “That’s some good brandy we have there. Imported!”

 

He drains his glass to the last drop.

 

Everyone sort of loses their inhibition after that. They smile a lot more, talk louder. Rumlow’s crowfeet are a permanent fixture on his face, and before Tony knows it, it’s been half an hour since he walked through the door. That’s enough preamble, isn’t it?

 

“So, what is it that you do to keep the company afloat? Bucky swears by luck, but I know he scored big investing in Alchemax.”

 

“That was a gold mine he struck there. Father can’t stop reminding us.”

 

Their cheerful discussion somehow ends on that note. There’s music playing in the background, some unmelodious synth and beat-boxing that goes so well with the throbbing in his head. Rumlow looks content nursing his scotch in silence and Tony – rare instance here – has run out of topics. Questions that he could’ve asked, loose lipped as they are under influence –

 

Tony replaces his glass on the coffee table, only to miss it by a couple of inches that it shatters on the floor. He blinks profusely, not liking the way sound and light become a nonsensical jumble to his senses.

 

“I wonder if the traffic’s holding them up.” His vision is tunnelling. “Bucky’s usually pretty punctual.”

 

“He is. He’s not comin’.”

 

“That so?” His heart picks up the pace, his skin hot and flushed. “Too bad. Next time then. Thanks for the drink.”

 

He pushes himself up a fraction, feels his butt leave the cushion when a thick something wraps around his neck and yanks him backward. Tony’s scream dies in his throat as he flails for support, only to have arms gripping him in all places, strapping him down to the couch. Leather – he smells leather, worn and used – and metal buckle taps against his jaw as someone tightens their belt around his neck.

 

“Nobody’s getting initiated tonight, Stark. I’ll tell you something – we don’t let people in so easily, and we haven’t recruited in a year.”

 

Tony swallows with much difficult, the belt pressing against his Adam’s apple. “What do you want from me?”

 

“You’re Bucky’s new boy toy, aren’t you? Say what you want about your worth to the organisation. Our shortcut to the horny and desperate elites? We know plenty others who meet the job description, but you? Who _are_ you, Anthony Stark? A reporter from the Bee – by the way, you write pretty well, I admire that. But, see,” Rumlow fists about his collar and yanks him up. The belt cuts into his neck and black is all he can see, black splotches that quickly dissolve into mere specks as he’s made to kneel in the middle of the room and a ring of thugs.

 

“No, no – don’t do this,” his balance is shot. The only thing keeping himself from falling over is some guys holding him up around his armpits.

 

“Father’s instructions were clear. No more fooling around with outsiders. Bucky may’ve pulled wool over his eyes, but not mine. Strip him.”

 

“Wait, no, no, no –”

 

They don’t waste time. Pocket knives make quick work of his T-shirt, and his pants and briefs pool pathetically around his knees. He fights, survival instincts taking over – all he sees now is the Glock on the coffee table that’s remained untouched. If he could grab it, there’s a _chance_ –

 

They take his arms and bend them behind his back, almost ripping them off his sockets. A short cry of shock and agony tears through him as they give his shoulder another experimental push.

 

“Don’t do this, please –”

 

There’re more chimes of belt buckles against zippers, metal on metal and the unmistakable swoosh as they’re pulled free from waistbands. Tony can’t move, his arms held too firmly at breaking point but the shakings won’t stop. The brandy, still scorching in the back of his throat threatens to spill over, until the first whip land across his back. Adrenaline masks the stings, and it takes him five more hard lashes to feel the heat on his skin.

 

“I’m not merciless. Tell you what, Stark.” Rumlow crouches before him, his teeth bared, his breath like scotch fumes. “If you come,” his hand sneaks between his thighs to cup at his balls, “we’ll stop whipping you.” Fingers close around his cock.

 

“Let me go,” Tony whispers. “I won’t say a thing.”

 

“You’re Bucky’s Sub, aren’t you? Don’t you get off from this?”

 

And the belt rains on him, one after another with just enough pauses to let him draw breaths, air that is quickly stolen by how Rumlow is working his cock. He feels no pain, no pleasure, but each hit and stroke snatches a little bit more of himself. He’s rock hard though his back is fiercely flaring.

 

When the door slams open and _Barnes_ stands there by the frame – his eyes dead on Tony kneeling on the floor – Tony wonders if finally getting shot by the Glock now constitutes as mercy killing.


	31. Chapter 31

For two whole seconds, only the harsh sounds of Tony’s breathing and monotonous disco beats breaking up otherwise radio silence. Whoever’s grabbing his arms begin to fidget, and Tony commands his body to stop with the freaking shaking, because if this culminates in a mob fight, he’ll need his limbs intact and swinging.

  
Rumlow barks like a hyena, and releases Tony like his cock swathed with the most disgusting poultice. “Bucky! Looks like you made it. Exceeded my expectations. Again!”

 

Barnes strides into the room. With each forward step he takes, the circle of thugs loosens. Tony’s arms are released and the return of circulation is both God-sent and a bitch. Barnes shadow looms before him, and when the footsteps grind to a halt right before him, he closes his eyes. Come whatever may –

 

“What the fuck is this, Rumlow? What is he doing here?”

 

“Nothin’! We’re just having some fun!”

 

“… Looks pretty one-sided to me.”

 

“You’re making a mistake, Bucky. You may trust this reporter for _whatever_ reasons and convince Father of the same BS, but not me and the boys, yeah. We should’ve used Stane. He’s the one with all the ties to the top one percent and memberships in the most prestigious dungeons. Bonus points for me trusting him to not unload a gun into my face the second I look away. But _this_ son of a –”

 

“Ezekiel is out of the question. I told you why.”

 

Great. Keep talking, fellas, keep talking because he’s recording all this in his head, his head that’s currently resting against Barnes’ _knees_ because his balance is still shot and the Earth has gained some serious speed spinning on its axis.

 

Then, it’s not knees anymore his forehead is propped up against, but shoulders, then the crook of someone’s chiselled chest. There’s a welcomed whiff of shampoo that is foreign to the pack of wild dogs he’s been running around with.

 

Barnes’ words reverberates in the depth of his ribs, sounding so much sharper as Tony cups his ears against it. “You mess with Ezekiel, you mess with Shaw, and that’s a problem we can’t afford having. Our best bet lies with the anonymous.”

 

“You haven’t even talked to Stane! He would’ve agreed to this plan. I see it in him, he _needs_ to prove himself to Shaw – we should take advantage of that –”

 

“It’s _exactly_ because of Alchemax that we got to keep our distance. How much breadcrumbs do you wanna leave behind, huh?”

 

“… Bringing Stark into the fold isn’t wise, Bucky. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

 

“Doing this to him is? What are you trying to achieve?”

 

Tony can’t see it, but he can hear the sneer regardless. “Information.”

 

“Why, sounds like you don’t _trust_ my decisions.”

 

“This is disobedience. Father said no more outsiders – it’s our orders, Bucky. Lie low. _This_ isn’t lying low!”

 

“And whose fault it is that we _all_ have to lie low?”

 

Rumlow tenses. Even his shadow on the floor turns a shade opaque.

 

“We can do this the easy way, brother. We both keep our mouths shut and go our merry ways. What Father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

 

The ground rumbles as half a dozen men march out through the door. Rumlow lingers, his fingers itching to either punch Barnes or throttle Tony, before he, too turns on his heels.

 

“Rumlow,” Barnes call out, one arm extended. “My phone.”

 

“Ah.” He reaches into his pocket and fishes a black device. He tosses it into the air, catches it deftly with his long, scarred fingers. Balances it on his palm. “Here you go.” He’s gone in the wake of trailing footsteps.

 

Is this the part where Bucky takes the Glock and do what gangsters usually do in the movies?

 

“Sit up, Stark.”

 

Bucky pulls his flannel overall off and drapes it over Tony’s shoulders. Even the lightest scrape of cotton on his back makes him want to punch pillows.  

 

“Stand up. We got to go.” Bucky leaves him off the ground with some effort. “You walk, or I leave you here for dead.”

 

Tony dreads to exit how he entered, because that would mean parading his nakedness to the coffee house guests. As “anonymous” Barnes implies him to be, he has a little something called dignity, and what little left of it, he wants to protect. He says “Hail, Mary” thrice when Barnes shoves him not through the door that leads up to the main guest area, but through a less decorated one.

 

“Where’s your car?” Tony sags some more, his dead weight pressing against Barnes’ side. “Stark, not now. Where’s your car?”

 

“… By the tree. There.”

 

“Keys?”

 

“Left pocket.”

 

“Christ.”

 

Tony doesn’t ask exactly where they’re heading to. He curls into himself as he rides shotgun in his own car, Barnes driving with purpose. At least the road they’re taking looks familiar, and the only consolation is that if he has to jump out of a speeding car and _not die_ , he’ll know where to run.

 

Barnes stabs at the air-conditioning controller and overtakes a car. “Boy, is there no _end_ to your stupidity, Stark?”

 

Despite the hurt and confusion, he retains enough lucidity to have his feathers rustled. “What am I supposed to do? Walk out like a motherfucker, guns a-blazing?”

 

They overtake _another_ car.

 

“Next time, don’t take messages from my phone. I will call you direct.”

 

The connotation of a “next time” aside –

 

“Why did Rumlow have your phone? That a company phone or something, you guys have to _share_ –”

 

“You have one job, Stark. One, and time’s running out.”

 

When they pass by a specific highway marker – Tony has to crane his neck to make sure – and the roof of an unsuspecting warehouse peeks over the canopy of trees, Tony feels like jumping out of the car anway.

 

“Fuck me… seriously?”

 

“Yes. Get out.”

 

They’re parked right in front of N & N’s main entrance.


	32. Chapter 32

“I’m not going _in_ there.”

 

Bucky unlocks the door and releases the catch of Tony’s seatbelt. “Stay with Hill for a couple of days. The warehouse has security. Do not – Stark, listen,” Barnes seizes him around his shoulder and gives him a little shake, “Whatever you do, do _not_ go back to Steve’s house or your own. Lie low. Take your keys,” Bucky pulls them out of the ignition and shoves them into Tony’s shaking hands. “When you’re ready, go to L.A. Stay the week there. That should buy me enough time to clean up the mess you started.”

 

“I didn’t start anything –”

 

“We’re not discussing that. Out.”

 

The car is starting to get stuffy anyway, so he opens his door, swings one leg out and promptly trips over himself. He’s enveloped in _so much_ … disturbances – his tender back, his scratched palms on the tarmac, the incessant pounding in his head and just how dry his tongue has become –

 

Barnes is by his side, propping him up against the car. It’s rough, just one large hand pinning him to the door with enough force so he doesn’t topple sideways. It’s still better than him hightailing and leaving Tony to the elements – Maria Hill, in particular.

 

“Give me your hand.”

 

He feels sick.

 

Patience obviously running thin, Barnes pulls Tony’s left arm over his shoulder and heaves. They got to their feet, unsteadily, one trying to compensate for the other, and hobbles to the door. It’s too late, there’s no way anyone is still working inside –

 

“Call for Hill.”

 

His phone is still in his pocket, but it feels like too much of a hassle.

 

Barnes slams a fist on the panel. Static crackles erupt from the speaker, and Barnes angles Tony to what looks like a microphone. Maria’s annoyance is blatant, “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying, and that’s when the sun’s freaking up. It’s midnight, you jackass, and I’m in the mood for prankster hunting so –”

 

“Maria?” Tony rasps, his voice faltering towards the end. He’s sliding downward, but Barnes’ death grip on his waist forces him up. “It’s Tony.”

 

“… What do you want?”

 

“… Help. Need help.”

 

The five-inch screen before them suddenly comes to live. Maria’s face occupies most of it, and Tony almost falls when Barnes quickly turn away from it.

 

“Who else is there?”

 

“A friend.” His vision is shot. He isn’t sure if he’s still upright. “Hurry, please.”

 

Then, another wave of movements and voices, all squeezed into the span of one hot minute – all of which he’s spent slumped on the floor. Barnes has taken the opportunity to run – somewhere, no idea where he’s going, he goes past the main gate and turns right. He hears Maria’s footsteps first, each laden with urgency when finally, the door opens.

 

“What the –”

 

She hooks her arms under his armpits and drags. The halting pace is killing his shoulders – then again, he’s got a lot more pound on him than her.

 

“Tony?” Thin fingers dance painfully across his cheeks. “Tony, can you hear me?”

 

“Stop slapping me, Christ…”

 

He rolls over to his side, he’s _this close_ to emptying his stomach content onto Maria’s carpet.

 

“Oh, my God.”

 

Barnes’ flannel shirt shifts to reveal the glorious lashes on his back. Tony swallows saliva religiously, don’t-puke-don’t-puke becomes his next mantra. He jerks away when Maria traces the angriest welt with the tip of her finger.

 

“Can you walk? I can’t carry you to the basement.”

 

He tests his strength, pushing against the wall and floor. His sigh is answer enough.

 

“OK. Stay here.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Just don’t move.”

 

The next time Maria slaps him, he finds out he’s accidentally gone to sleep and wakes up hungry like a hippo. He uses the next five minutes rediscovering Maria Hill. There’s a depth to her character that Tony hasn’t yet appreciated – not his fault, to his defence.

 

“Minor shock. Should be temporary,” she mutters after studying his eyes. “Hold this.”

 

“What – no, no.” She pushes a large, fluffy pillow into his arms. “I’m not much of a, uh, hugger. I don’t –”

 

“That’s not for hugging.”

 

That’s for punching, it turns out. The burn of antiseptic being lathered over a large area on his back hurts _more_ than the belt, oddly enough. He’s manly enough not to squeak as she works on him, so he focuses wholeheartedly in annihilating the pillow. He pulls and squeezes until all the fight is gone from him, until he leans into it to seek solace from synthetic foam.

 

The momentary peace gives him time to process what had transpired. The details are a bit hazy, he hopes they’ll return with clarity after he’s done with this “adrenal crash” crap Maria diagnose him with. He only remembers what Barnes told him in the car, and that is a miracle.

 

“Maria, can I ask for another favour?”

 

Offering a small mug of honey, she uncaps her anaesthesia cream and chucks it into a tub. The fading tape on the side says “Care Kit”. “We’ll talk tomorrow. We have a couple of rooms for guests. No one from the club is here tonight, so I’ll put you up in one.”

 

“Yeah, about that.” He holds the mug with both hands, afraid he’ll spill everything over himself. “Can I stay here a couple of days?”

 

“That’s what I meant. Who’s the friend who brought you here?”

 

“… Maria, you’ll freak out –”

 

“It’s a good thing they didn’t break your skin. Almost. If infections set in, you’ll have to go to the hospital. And the police,” she adds, her eyes narrowing.

 

“No. Not yet. I have information. This whole thing isn’t wasted effort –”

 

“Is this worth it?”

 

Barnes said a lot of stuff just now. There’s gold in his words. What he said, what Rumlow said. There’s insinuations in the politics and administration of the organisation. He feels – _knows_ – that this is only the first shift at the core. He’s not done yet. Far from it.


	33. Chapter 33

Tony doesn’t dream often – science says people dream all the time, they just can’t remember them. Fine. Tony doesn’t remember his dreams often. He does now, and it’s some scary shit that makes him thrash in his bed and jerk awake. The _scarier_ part is that he’s not alone, and _someone_ is holding his hand under the blanket.

 

“Holy _shit_ –”

 

Understandably, he scoots all the way to the headboard in the dark, managing to get away from the creep that’s watching him sleep and bumping his head against the wall.

 

“Calm down. It’s me.”

 

This one is the scariest.

 

“ _Maria_?”

 

“Yes. Do you remember where you are?”

 

He rubs at the back of his skull and frowns. The skin on his back feels numb and tight, like it’s been stretched too tightly over his skeleton. “I’m in your… guest room? Strange, I don’t remember getting here.”

 

“You walked. I had to half-carry your ass here, so just to be clear, you owe me a big one.”

 

“Yeah, OK.”

 

“It’s near dawn, if that’s what you’re asking next.”

 

“… I can see the clock over there just fine, thanks. Glow in the dark, charming. It’s kinda creepy talking to you in your uh, general direction. Can you turn on the –” There’s a click and the table lamp comes alive. “Thank you. Whoa, you look...”

 

“Say it and I’ll make you wash all the toilets in the warehouse. Call it emotional compensation.”

 

The bags under her eyes hang heavy and dark, a stark contrast to the pallor of her features. As if that’s not obvious enough, she yawns, long and hard as she stretches in her plastic chair.

 

“… Have you slept at all? Seriously, you look pretty beat up.”

 

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on you. Since I’m all out of baby monitors and there’s no one else to sic on you, well.”

 

“Wow.” Tony eases into his pillows. “Thank you. I daresay you’re worried about me a little. Wonder what that says about…” He feels phantom fingers groping his crotch. He flinches, and belatedly tries to pass it off as a sneeze.

 

Maria sees through it nevertheless. “I have to tell Steve about this. I owe it to him.”

 

“No. Not yet.”

 

“Really? Give me one lousy reason why I shouldn’t deposit you in A and E and call the SPD – against all logic.”

 

“I need to keep at it. I’m getting closer – if you do that, it’s the end. Case closed. I can’t even show my face around them anymore.”

 

“You keep doing what you do, you’ll end up in in the bottom of the Pacific in eighteen pieces. Why?”

 

“… Why what?”

 

“This is either madness, or something else. So, which is it? Why do you _have_ to pursue this? Steve doesn’t give a rat’s ass about them –”

 

“He doesn’t, I do!” His scratchy voice cuts into the quiet of daybreak. “I do. Every time he takes his clothes off, I remember the photographs. Every time he _fucks me_ , _I_ have to tolerate the scars and that freaking tattoo on his body! They carved him up, and you want me to walk away when I have a serious chance at ending this?”

 

His throat is sore by the time he’s done, and when the weight of his admission finally rails into him, he sits stunned.

 

This has never been about Steve.

 

“There’s nothing to end. You have to let it go, Tony.” Maria’s hand curls around his again. “If you don’t, it’ll kill you. One way or another.”

 

“… Look, if things point south, at least you won’t have to tolerate my ugly face again.”

 

“Jackass.”

 

Streaks of orange paint the far wall as they nurse their thoughts in solitude. Tony is about to ask what’s for breakfast when Maria pulls away from the bed. “What’s your next plan?”

 

Funnily enough, Barnes’ voice in his head provides the answer. “Go to L.A. Lie low for a while.” As the words roll off his tongue, a sense of unease washes over his chest. Why did he suggest L.A. specifically? Was it coincidental?

 

“You’ve been away from Steve for too long. That’s definitely the _best_ plan you’ve come up with in a long while. Here, something for you.”

 

What little fizzle of glee vanishes as he reads the label on the box. “Kama Sutra Night Kit?” He gives it a shake and hears the content rattle. “You’re kidding me? I’m recuperating from whatever and you’re giving me _homework_?”

 

“It’s fun stuff,” she shrugs. “You’ll like it.”

 

Later that evening, when he’s feeling up for some paperwork – meaning, guilty that he hasn’t justified his salary for today – he checks his inbox for incoming and there it is, one from his boss. One? His eyes bulge at the fact that there’s truly, just _one_ e-mail from work. Praying that it’s not a two-word e-mail you’re-fired, he clicks on it, scrolls down it quickly, and promptly types back.

 

_I understand where you’re coming from, and I agree that it makes economic sense to move on to a new topic –_

 

They want to shut down the investigation on Barnes.

 

_I have new evidence. We know about them spiking their drugs with anti-aging stuff. Why did they do that, I’m going to find out. We know their customer base._

They want him to write about _immunotherapy_. Two deaths in clinical trial costing the company forty-four percent drop in stock price and potentially a complete shut down? People want to know more. So, he’s been told.

 

_Give me more time._

_Please. Reconsider this._


	34. Chapter 34

“Hey, surprise! Miss me?”

 

That’s what Tony imagine Steve would say when he shows up unannounced at the front door. There’ll be hugs all around, a joyous welcome with open arms.

 

Right.

 

He speed-dials Steve and waits out the three beats. He runs the simulated conversation in his brain and counts how he should load up the fridge for two portions’ meals.

 

“Tony?”

 

“Hey, Steve.”

 

It’s Thursday, six o’clock in the evening. Not the best time to call but he’d like to catch that bus tonight.

 

“I’ll have to call you later. I’m still at work.”

 

“I know, I don’t mean to interrupt. Just a quick one.”

 

“OK.”

 

“Can I hang out at your place for four nights, maybe five?”

 

“You have my keys. Go ahead.”

 

Tony slips the phone between his ear and shoulder to free up his hands. He’s in the middle of piling clothes into a bag. “I mean L.A. Can I come stay with you in L.A. for a week?”

 

This is where Tony imagine Steve would laugh and say something like, “Finally!”

 

“… Why?”

 

“I took a week off and thought of spending more time with you.” He’s stopped folding his shirts – all bearing N & N’s logo because that’s all Maria have in stock.

 

“… It’s not really a good time, Tony.”

 

But, he can’t stay here either.

 

“Yeah, I understand.” He flattens the stack of shirts to make more space for pants. “It’s OK. I’ll uh, put up at a nearby hotel or something. It’s all on very short notice, so.”

 

“Tony, I don’t mean to sound unwelcoming.”

 

No, not at all. He’s not blaming Steve one bit. But it’s impolite to discuss psychotic gangsters hellbent on screwing his ass, so if he can’t bunk with Steve, it’s fine. Nothing personal. There’s got to be some moth-eaten, spring-creaking mattresses he could rent somewhere.

 

“When are you arriving?”

 

“Midnight, I think. I can stay the night elsewhere and drop by your place after work the next day. We can have dinner or something. You don’t have to rearrange your week for this.”

 

He promises he’ll be as least disruptive as possible. Cross his heart.

 

“I’ll pick you up at the station. Text me when you’re close by.”

 

After an early dinner, Maria drops him at the bus terminal armed with one duffel bag full of N & N clothing merchandises and a stony, “Stay alive, Stark.” He sleeps most of the way through, waking up once to down some aspirin and check the time. A low-grade fever is keeping him warm and toasty, but there’s solace in the ebbing anxiety as he puts more miles between this bus and Sacramento.

 

Seeing Steve at the drop-off point, wearing a thin smile adds cheer to his heart.

 

“Hey,” he walks right up to Steve and grins. Other alighting passengers throw them curious glances – two dudes standing so close to each other in the middle of the night, they don’t mind being stared at, not at all.

 

“How was the journey?”

 

“Slept through most of it. Was OK.”

 

Steve’s dorm is the same as he last remembers it. It’s one in the morning and Tony gives Steve first dibs on the bathroom.

 

“Or, we could shower together. Bet our fans would love that.”

 

“… There’s juice in the fridge and newspaper on the kitchen counter. If you’re hungry, there’s instant whatever in the freezer. Microwave’s beside the stove.”

 

Tony vaults over the couch and lands on comfy cushions with a satisfying thud. Once he’s sure Steve’s out of sight, he rolls to his side and regrets putting so much pressure on his back. There’s no Maria to help him lather ointment on the bruises, no way to take his shirt off to reduce scuffing. Well, tough. He dangles his legs off the armrest and kicks like a petulant five-year-old, until he stubs his toes on a something.

 

Whatever he’d accidentally kicked at lands on the floor with a solemn thump on the rug. He gets up to put it back – lest it’s now scattered in a million pieces, then he’ll have to volunteer to wash the toilet for a month.

 

It’s the gaudy silver box that Steve used to keep locked. Its lid is now on the floor, and there are documents in it.

 

Tony feels his heart race again, his temperature shooting through his scalp. It’s a jumble of mess of notes and folders, but top of the pile are old newspaper cuttings and photographs of _Barnes_. Not those nicely kept mementos either – these are yellowed, dogeared and grainy.   

 

He reaches out for what looks like a page torn out of a book when the shower stops running and there’s fumbling at the door. Tony slams the lid over the box and dives onto the couch, in the nick of time as Steve emerges from the bathroom.

 

“… Are you sleeping?”

 

Tony yawns until tears leak out of his eyes. “I could use more.”

 

“Shower first.”

 

He can’t even shower in peace without seeing Barnes’ mugshot in the suds. Five minutes before joining Steve in the bedroom, he loiters by the box again and tries to pry the lid off.

 

Why is he unsurprised to find it locked again?

 

“Tony? It’s late, get some rest.”

 

“Coming!”

 

Know what he really, _really_ wants next?

 

Sparing the box one last longing look, he pads out of the sitting room, turning off the light as he goes.


	35. Chapter 35

Data, data, data. _It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts._ Tony is no Sherlock, but he makes do with what he has.

 

He sits huddled in a corner with his laptop balanced precariously on his knees. Steve has left for work – breakfast was a hurried affair. No matter, he has Rumlow and SB909 to attend to for the most of morning and afternoon.

 

 _Brock_ Rumlow, to be specific. Man has a fantastic CV as far as a gangster goes. At this rate of recidivism, Tony wonders if he’s stocked his home closet with orange jumpsuits for convenience. Going by the way Rumlow keeps talking about Father, he might’ve belonged to the inner circle as well. So that’s a potential lead Tony’s unwilling to let go, but there’s nothing in his felony-soaked history that links Rumlow remotely to Steve.

 

Or the drugs. The drugs. Steve is incidental. It’s the drugs and the clientele and –

 

Tony groans and leans back. This self-denial has got to stop. It’s not helping anybody’s case. His laptop wobbles on his knees as he stretches.

 

He goes through the catalogue the second time, tweaking the filters to include articles up to twenty years ago. Rumlow's name appears time and again, but still no red flags that deserve a second glance.

 

It _is_ a dead end, as far as this search strategy goes.

 

And what’s the deal with SB909 again? The magical Elixir of Life that Barnes and friends are peddling to the rich and needy. This one got him stumped, too. There’s an embarrassing lack of information for a compound purported to extend lifespan, and searches on major reagent suppliers returned nada. Only one website bothers to mention it in passing, handwaving it as “unavailable on the market”. What does that even mean?

 

“It means that it’s patented. You should contact the manufacturer direct.”

 

“I don’t know who’s holding the patent, Pep. You think I could Google this information?”

 

Because life can be nice to Tony Stark sometimes. It usually does so in the form of Pepper Potts, so if this is some sign from up above that maybe, just maybe his answers lie with the wonderful Misses Hogan, God help him.

 

“… That can be a _bit_ tricky, but I have my resources. Our division used to handle software IP before it got blown up to a separate branch, so… you’re in luck.”

 

“You, m’lady, are amazing. Where have you been all my life?”

 

“Making sure you stay alive. Not an easy feat. How are you? Gotten into trouble lately?”

 

Tony puts his laptop to sleep and walks to the window. There’s a glare that irritates the tail of his eye where the evening sun is reflected off Steve’s silver box, now parked behind the couch – as if that’ll make it less conspicuous. “I’m fine. Steve’s fine too, before you ask. I’m spending the week in L.A.”

 

“Oh? So, you’ve moved in with Steve?”

 

“No,” Tony chuckles. “No, I’m not… it’s a temporary arrangement. I just took a week off work and thought of swinging by, you know.”

 

“OK. Well,” there’s a rush of air on Pepper’s end, “I’ve to get back to work. I’ll see what I can do with this uh, SB909.”

 

“You’re the best. Don’t let it clog up your schedule. You’ve done so much, Pep.”

 

He leans against the wall and sighs some more. His call history has the obvious absence of “Unknown Number”, and he isn’t sure if that’s something to feel relieved about. He’d last seen Barnes four days ago, and though it’s not like he’s expecting anyone to pop up all of the sudden – he is supposed to lay low in L.freaking.A. after all – this long stretch of quiet is disconcerting.

 

And then there’s the stupid box that’s burnt white crisscross into his retina.

 

Tony squats before it, digs his fingers under the lid, shakes it, kicks it – Steve has locked it up well. But still, wiser men had said, "If there's a will, there's a way." A conventional brass lock keeps the top secured to the bottom, which is sporting an obnoxiously long label bearing the words “KVARNIK” –

 

IKEA-ware, huh? Steve and his penchant for uniformity.

 

Tony pulls out his phone again.

 

“Hey, Rhodey?”

 

“’Sup, man? How’s L.A. treating you?”

 

This is a stupid idea. A stupid, _stupid_ idea –

 

“I need your help. Can you come to L.A. this Saturday morning?”

 

“… OK. You sound like you’re up to something. Is this gonna put me in jail?”

 

“No.” Tony checks the box’s label again. He wouldn’t have asked this of Rhodey if he could leave the ATF dorm without risking some punks skinning him alive. “I think. Listen, can you also buy me a silver box from IKEA? It’s a K-V-A-R-N-I-K. Yeah, it has to be silver, OK? And a one-point-five-inch width brass padlock from Master Lock.”


	36. Chapter 36

“So!”

 

The last two hours before Steve returns Tony’s spent trawling through lists of staycation destinations. He’s eyeing those no-frills, standalone cabins that wouldn’t incinerate his wallet, when as if on cue, Steve walks through the door looking thoroughly worn.

 

“Bad day?”

 

Steve kicks the door shut with his heel. “Normal day. How’s yours?”

 

“Could be better if they decide to double my salary.”

 

“… What’s that on your computer? Vacation packages?” Steve glances at the colourful display on Tony’s laptop. That’s work all right. The coconut trees and fine, white sand and beautiful, blue sky –

 

“Eh, all work no play and all that jazz. So.” He clambers onto the couch and watches Steve fill a glass with water under the tap. “Do you want to come with me to someplace quiet over the weekend?”

 

“I think so. I mean, finally there’s some lull period at work. What do you have in mind?”

 

Folding his arms under his chin, he holds off his response in favour of scrutinising the hard lines on Steve’s forehead, the growing bags under Steve’s eyes, and the subtle tension lining those shoulders. The fact that he could do this for a minute straight as Steve stares into space, not bothering to call him out on it just sells it.

 

“Are you…” Tony begins, but finds himself equally at a loss.

 

When Steve turns to him and smiles, blue eyes _finally_ seeking his, Tony’s feet have done deciding. They bring him to Steve, his arms circling Steve’s waist.

 

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks first. And that’s the killer.

 

“I don’t know what I can do for you actually –”

 

“Well, if you want to volunteer with the laundry and dishes…”

 

“Hey, I’m here until Monday. I can play maid all you want.”

 

“… You’re making this weird again, Tony.”

 

“That’s not meant to be weird.” They both straighten up, because manly hugs can only last so long. But Steve never stops running his thumb idly along Tony’s bare wrist. “If there’s anything at all. I’m here for you, Steve.”

 

“… Thank you.”

 

“I never say that enough.”

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

Steve still smells of air-conditioning and PVC seats, and those set of plump lips are coming for him. Large hands cradle the sides of his jaw, angling him for what could be the sweetest kiss –

 

His phone rings to the tune of “Numa numa”.

 

What the heck.

 

He grabs the front of Steve’s shirt and reigns him in, their lips meeting in – it’s been a while. It _feels_ like it’s been a while, and it shows in how Steve holds him tightly around his waist. He _could_ make this weird after all. Like sticking his tongue out as Steve catches his bottom lip in another slow kiss, or thrusting his hips in case Steve’s thinking of bed adventure.

 

As Tony withdraws, his heart clenches when he sees a drift in Steve’s features. There are no tears, not even a hint of moisture in those eyes, but the pain reflected in them? And as swiftly as it comes, it goes.

 

“Numa numa” still blares like a mother from the coffee table.

 

The loss in body warmth is palpable as Steve backs away. “That ring tone has got to go, Tony.”

 

“Yeah,” he makes for his phone, still too dazed and distracted. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

 

It’s now a miscall from Pepper. He’ll have to call her later –

 

His phone beeps twice – a new message alert. Tony looks up from the device but Steve’s already disappeared into the bathroom. He clicks his teeth in frustration. It’s that daunting feeling that so many things are happening at once and it’s his call on how to prioritise, only to be overwhelmed and ended up not attending to any.

 

Basically, he’s useless. And hapless, and helpless –

 

_SB909 patent is shared between three chemists and UCLA. They’ve since established a start-up to develop that drug when Shaw Industries bought them over. They’re called Alchemax now. P._

The shower is running. Tony hears water sputtering against tiled floor.

 

So, Alchemax has been dealing drugs with Barnes all along? Tony pockets his phone and sinks into an armchair. What’s with all that innocence and pretext ignorance on Ezekiel’s part, then? A façade? If SB909 is patented, the formula is – theoretically – inaccessible, unless... Say he wants to give Ezekiel the benefit of doubt. Say, for the slightest second he doesn’t believe that Alchemax is manufacturing SB909 on their own, and peddling the stuff to Barnes. Maybe those scientists have pulled wool over Ezekiel’s eyes, selling them to Barnes behind his back. There is precedent.

 

The thought of Ezekiel – of all people – in cahoots with the likes of Barnes? After what had happened to Obadiah Stane?

 

“Tony, I’ve been thinking.”

 

Since when has Steve been done with his shower? Tony didn’t hear the water go off. He slaps on a grin and compartmentalises anything non-Steve-related elsewhere in his mind.

 

“It’s rather last minute, but I think I can get another day off on Monday. So, if you want to skip off to… wherever, we got three days to hang out. How does that sound?”

 

“… Perfect.”


	37. Chapter 37

It was simpler back in the days when he had to pack for only one. He’d sleep in his car, take showers in public restrooms, eat whatever he found on his drive along the Coast. Packing for two surprisingly isn’t much more difficult – but that’s probably because his plus-one is Steve, and Steve can live like a Spartan if he has to. Two duffel bags in the trunk and an ice-box loaded with Coke later – voila.

 

Really, planning the staycation is a cakewalk.

 

Steve is currently hovering around the dining table preparing sandwiches for the journey. To succeed, getting the timing right is crucial. And that means tight coordination with Rhodey – good man – who’s been waiting in his own car parked around the back of this apartment complex.

 

“Steve?” Tony calls out. When Steve looks up from the ham, he brandishes a purple box. “Know what this is?”

 

“… Maria’s.” Obviously unimpressed, Steve goes back to piling lettuce over bread. “I’ve seen that around the warehouse. She’s still stocking up those?”

 

“You mean, this is old stuff?”

 

“It _was_ very popular in the days. Maybe it still is, I won’t know. Anyway, this shows she still has some heart, after that ridiculous fucking machine –”

 

“Christ, Steve. _Language_.”

 

Steve smirks, but keeps his eyes trained on the mayonnaise. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

 

“Right. Anyway,” the keys in his hand jangle as he opens the door. “I’m bringing this to the cabin, so I’m gonna stuff this in the car first.”

 

“OK.”

 

“Have you showered?”

 

“Not yet. After this?” Steve finally tears his attention away from food and brings his thumb to his lips, licking at residual mayo. He’s doing it on purpose, Tony can tell, the way his tongue wraps around the digit too carefully, how his eyes are tracking Tony’s from across the rooms. The edge of his mouth quirks – so subtly – that Tony scoffs and flashes Steve the bird.

 

“Dick.”

 

“What did I do?” Steve’s voice is light with amusement.

 

“I’m going to the car, Steve.”

 

“Hey, can you bring another pack of tissue – yeah, that one. Thanks.”

 

Now he has a stupid boner brushing against the inside of his briefs with every step he takes.

 

Piling Maria’s gift box and the tissue packs in the back of the car, he whips out his phone and calls Rhodey. Focus. He can’t afford petty distractions, not now.

 

“Hey, you still there?”

 

“Yeah. Since the sun rises and it’s eight fifteen in the morn’ – what Kool-Aid did you make me drink ‘cause this is ridiculous –”

 

“I wouldn’t have asked this of you if I’d a better plan. I trust you, buddy.”

 

“Thank you I guess. But ‘trust’ isn’t gonna cover my gas and time spent and –”

 

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? I’m gonna treat you to _omakase_ at any restaurant of your choice, anytime you want –”

 

“For the rest of my life?”

 

“… Once. After I get back.”

 

“You’re a real cheapo, Tony Stark.”

 

“I think Steve’s taking a shower soon. You’re parked beside the mailbox, right? I’m coming to you now.”

 

He combs his hair with his fingers and walks out of the parking bay. In this world, nothing is said to be certain, only taxes, death and this security guard watching the entrance. Tony nods at him and smiles – please don’t make small talks – before he slips out of the gate and makes damn sure his posture, his pacing is as ordinary as plain bread.

 

Rhodey is, as promised, right there by the mailbox, hugging a silver KVARNIK box with a brass padlock latched on one side.

 

“Thanks, buddy. I owe you a big one.”

 

“Just wanna make sure, you’re not doing anything illegal or something, right? I mean, I love you like a brother, Tony, but –”

 

“Yeah, this is no biggie. It’s Steve’s box, and there’s something inside it that I need to –”

 

“You’re _stealing_ Steve’s stuff?”

 

“No, no.” Precious minutes have passed. He has to get back soon. “I just want to have a look at –”

 

“Tony,” Rhodey hisses and makes to grab at the box again. “I knew it. What’s wrong with you, man?”

 

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not it. He keeps documents in there, and I saw photographs of a wanted criminal. The same guy I’ve been risking my hide over. Coincidence? Maybe. Look, that’s not P and C material, Rhodey. It’s locked up in a box like _this_ for God’s sake _._ If he finds out, it’s… well, that’s between him and me, if it comes down to it. You’ll be fine.”

 

“… And I suppose you’ll want me to stay here so you can pass me the _actual_ box?”

 

“Bingo.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Love you, too! I won’t be long. Stay here.”

 

Tony runs all the way up to Steve’s unit, all five floors of it, adrenaline pumping in his veins. He hears the shower running from the sitting room, so he quickly fills Rhodey’s box with old newspaper he’s been saving over the week. Switching it with Steve’s, he tiptoes to the door, assured that nothing looks out of place before he makes that final dash.

 

When he hands the box over to Rhodey, the lump in his throat dissolves.

 

“Right,” Rhodey tucks it securely under his arm. “Please tell me you’re not gonna ask me to bribe a locksmith and duplicate everything I find in here.”

 

Tony, still breathless all the running, nods.

 

“… I’m probably gonna regret this, won’t I?”

 

“We’ll be back on Monday evening, late. So, be here again by six. I’ll have to take this box back and collect the copies from you.”

 

When he greets Steve again – hair still damp from his shower, a towel wrapped around his waist – he pecks Steve on the cheek quickly and loiters in the sitting room, not daring to cast a passing glance at the silver box. His heart – a palpitating mess – only calms down when their car is finally on the highway.


	38. Chapter 38

“It’s an hour and a half drive, says Google Map.” Tony pushes his shades up his nose. “What do you want to listen to? Black Sabbath? R.E.O. Speedwagon?”

 

“You.”

 

Tony throws Steve a side-glance and smirks. “Oh, like you don’t know me. You’ll regret it Steve, I can go on _forever_.”

 

“We haven’t really, you know, talk. I missed that.”

 

“I thought you wanted to hear me _sing._ ”

 

“Tony…”

 

“Want to know how Pepper is doing as Misses Hogan?”

 

* * *

 

The Pigeon’s Nest sits on top of the rolling hills of Highland Parks. Steve gets significantly chattier during the meet-and-greet with the landlord, a pleasant elderly lady who lives across the road. She gives them the keys, a freshly baked apple pie and a tour around the studio cabin that’s simply decorated. Sufficiently so. Tony drops their bags by the king-sized bed as Steve accompanies her to the private backyard.

 

“Two-hundred-and-forty-degree view of the San Gabriel mountains!” she chirps, afternoon breeze sweeping her greying hair.

 

The formalities are all over in under fifteen minutes.

 

“Great place, huh?” Tony finally joins Steve at the deck, two perfectly chilled beers in tow. “And a steal. To Airbnb, and an amazing weekend.”

 

Steve guzzles a third of his bottle in one go. Tony stops drinking his.

 

“We should do this more often.” Steve dries out the condensation on his jeans. “Get away.”

 

“Take a break.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Who knows what a change in location can do for them? Watching Steve leaning against the railing, his back against Tony as he faces the wide expanse of the horizon, it dwarves everything. It’s ridiculous to think that a ten-minute drive up some hill to get to this altitude is all it takes to relief niggling worries – of Barnes, work, mortgages, the whole thing.

 

And that gives him newfound perspectives.

 

Tony settles his beer on the garden table and steps out to the perimeter, stopping short of brushing his elbow against Steve’s. He turns around and rests his back against the railing.

 

“Something’s bothering you,” he begins. “For a while now, I think. But I’m too pig-headed to see it.” Steve nods, but doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Stress from work, Tony. I’ll manage.”

 

“I know you would.” Steve takes another swig from his bottle. “You lost some weight.”

 

“… I don’t think so.”

 

“You don’t fill up the same when I hug you.” Even if the sex does. “What’s the matter?”

 

This time, when Steve lifts the bottle to his lip, Tony promptly reaches out and wrestles it from his grip.

 

“Tony –”

 

“Financial issues?”

 

“No.”

 

“Family?”

 

“… No.”

 

“Right. By the way, we haven’t talked about our lovely families so maybe we can get that out of the way over BBQ dinner or something. Uh, women?”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Kidding. What could possibly trouble Special Agent Rogers, then?” Steve makes again for his bottle, and Tony lifts it higher. “Hey. This is really weird, ‘cause usually our positions are reversed. Steve, I’m worried.” Steve’s shoulders slump a fraction. “ _Really_ worried. Are you all right?”

 

“Shall we not talk about this now?” Steve says instead, folding his forearms on the railing. “This staycation… it’s a rare chance.”

 

Tony finishes what’s left in Steve’s bottle on his own.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t forget to baste the chicken again.”

 

“Yeah, OK. The sausage is a little charred on one side – turn it over.”

 

Surprisingly, BBQ is a chaotic affair.

 

“When was the last time you managed a grill, Steve?”

 

“Police school?”

 

“So, never then?”

 

“How hard can this be – uh oh.”

 

And that’s how grown men end up having burnt buffalo wings and unevenly cooked sausages for dinner.

 

“For someone who’s been blowin’ trumpets about his cooking skills, you suck, Steve.”

 

They wash the carbon flakes down with more beer. Thank God for waist-high railings, because at this level of blood alcohol, Tony shudders to think – if he could concentrate enough – of the possibilities.

 

“I’m the king of the world!”

 

The evening wind sends his skin crawling, mere distractions easily taken care of by the sight of Southern California’s skyline. The endlessness of the city is marked by the lights stretching as far as his eyes can see.

 

“Cold?” Steve’s chapped lips brush against the shell of his ear. Steve’s palms – warmed up by the beer – rub idly along his arms. He leans backward into Steve’s front, and here he finds warmth. All he needs to do is to look up, chin cocked this way for kisses, slow and sensual to claim him. Lost in the haze of minor drunkenness, he wraps his arms around Steve’s neck. He’s convinced this is urgent, and he reels Steve in.

 

This is a private deck after all, right? Nobody’s going to care if Steve has somehow snaked his free arm under Tony’s shirt, callous palms running all over his front.

 

“Whoa, Steve, what if –”

 

“I’ve turned down the lights.” Nimble fingers tweak at his nipples, a passing tease before they run along the dips on his collarbone. “Come here.”

 

Kisses aren’t kisses anymore as breathing is punctuated with deep groans and gasps of surprises. Steve isn’t as drunk as he is. These measured touches are driving him nuts – fingernails scraping against his chest, and –

 

“Steve –”

 

Steve’s other hand cups Tony’s half-erect cock through the jeans.

 

“Bed. We should move inside –”

 

Steve pulls the zipper down and fondles the bulge through the briefs. Teeth and tongue dance along the side of his neck as the same warm hand under his shirt keeps him in place, splayed across his stomach.

 

“May I, Tony?”

 

“What?” he wheezes. But, Steve already has a hand on his dick. “Out here?”

 

Steve purrs into his hair, fingers pinching a bruised nipple.

 

“Shit. Yeah, OK.”

 

Then, he’s falling. A blur overtakes his vision as Steve spins him around, and tugs his shirt up. Cold air hits his bare torso like a brick, and he almost knees Steve in the groin – surprised, as tongue laps at his chest.

 

“Slow down –”

 

Icy fingers dip into his briefs and close firmly around his cock. That’s the end. The _end_ –

 

With one obnoxiously loud suckle, Steve peels away. He’s sporting a wet spot over his embarrassingly needy bulge – whose fault is that? – and pants at the sudden loss of sensation. Steve drops to his knees – not a problem – but Christ, continue… _continue_ …

 

He tugs at the gutter, pulls the briefs down to mid-thigh, freaking grins that crooked grin before he swallows Tony whole.


	39. Chapter 39

“OK! Steve, not _here_.”

 

Steve is _not listening._ He’s leaking more, feels wetter – and Steve rolls his tongue over the tip ever so often, he has a habit of keeping things tidy – God, details. He grabs a fistful of Steve’s hair and pulls.

 

“Seriously!”

 

Steve pulls back, blue eyes locking with Tony’s, and audaciously drags his tongue one last time along the rigid mass. It’s freaking torture when the hilly breeze blows over it, feels like the beginning of frostbite.

 

“OK. Thanks, geez.”

 

He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls Steve into the cabin with urgency. He can come all over the carpets right now. The moment the door is locked behind them, he lunges for Steve – he _is_ desperate, just not enough for PDA – only to have a pillow tossed into his face.

 

“Not tonight, Tony.”

 

“Not tonight… _what_?”

 

Steve pulls his shirt off, chiselled muscles still so tantalising under the warmth of brown fluorescence. “That was a one-time offer only.”

 

“… You got to be kidding me.”

 

“Too bad. I’m going to take a shower.”

 

Just like that, Steve breezes past him, not touching even a single hair on his body. _Seriously?_

 

For whatever reasons, he thinks this act of travesty deserves retaliation. Don’t want Steve to think he’s a pushover now, is he?In a stroke of brilliance, he grasps Steve around his shoulder, wrenches him back, has the gall to flash a shit-eating grin into Steve’s shocked expression and yes –

 

One second he’s groping Steve’s crotch –

 

A tightly curled fist just stopped dead mere inches away from his nose. He’s suddenly on his back, a plush rug beneath him – Steve has effortlessly swept him off his feet, locked his dominant arm and gone in for a KO.

 

All reflexes.

 

“Steve?”

 

Something drops like an anchor in his belly. This isn’t fun for Steve, it’s painted so clearly on his face. He’s panting for breath, irises blown wide. Tony dares not to move. He holds air in his lungs until it boils, and waits for Steve to back away to a safer distance.

 

“Steve?” Tony calls again. He’ll take his chances. It’s Steve.

 

And only then Steve turns to look at him. “Shower,” he whispers, and leaves.

 

Tony has never felt guiltier, or more confused, or plain freaked-out. They’ve gone through so many cycles of trusts – don’t they count for something? _Fine_ , he’s ambushed Steve for kicks and giggles – what’s family if they don’t roughhouse once in a while? – and he’s swapped sugar for salt at breakfast. He’s snuck under the blankets once – or thrice? – substituting sucky blowjobs for proper wake-up calls.

 

And Steve had been OK.

 

Hemarches to the bathroom and counts to three. Then, he knocks on the door. He’d try for the doorknob – they don’t lock rooms at home – but in the end, chooses not to.

 

It’s Steve. It’ll be fine.

 

“Steve? You OK in there?”

 

He hears only running water.

 

“Steve?” he knocks some more. “Talk to me. Come on.”

 

“Yeah. I’m showering.” There’s a clatter of something, plastic on ceramic tiles. “The soap’s unscented.”

 

Steve is built like a safe. Those nigh unbreakable cuboidal boxes with keypads on the front, ring a bell? Burn it, bomb it – no problem, not a scratch on the surface. He just needs to push the right buttons to get it to open.

 

“I was thinking, if you want to play a game afterwards? I mean, I bet the TV reception is bad. Always is. Anyway, who comes all the way to a place like this to watch TV, right?”

 

Tony almost jumps out of his skin when the door clicks twice and swings open.

 

So it was locked after all.

 

“Hey,” Tony forces a smile. Steve’s naked, dripping with water.

 

“Hey.”

 

And the first thing that comes to Tony’s mind is, “Blackjack?”

 

“… As in?”

 

“The card game. Didn’t we agree to play that someday? Guess what, tonight _is_ someday.”

 

Doesn’t look like Steve bother to towel himselfdry before he answers the door. A small pool is blooming around Tony’s feet.

 

“Yeah. I’ll let you get back to your shower.”

 

Water splatters against his ankle as Steve steps forward andpulls him into a near-crushing embrace.Steve all but curls intohim, needing the contact, the security.He plays it cool and calm – he stands his ground and grips Steve aboutthe wrists. Is it strength and support that Steve needs? What he wouldn’t give?

 

“I’m here, Steve.”

 

Steve is only one man. A manis entitled to off days.

 

“I can’t… I can’t fix this.”

 

“Fix what?” Like Steve would answer.“Work stuff?”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes out shakily. “Work stuff. Oh, God.”

 

“OK. Work stuff. Secret stuff. I get it.”

 

“Tony –”

 

“Hey, it’s cool.” He’s also Steve’s personal towel, it seems. The front of his T-shirt has soaked up all of Steve’s residualdroplets. Great! Can he skip showering himself? “Blackjack? Or I make us coffee and we can Dr Phil this thing.”

 

There’s a pregnant pause of trepidation as he waits for Steve’s reply. Knowing Steve, knowing how he’ll _always_ pick himself up after falling apart because that’s how merciless he is on himself, he answers calmly, “Blackjack, then.”

 

Guess Tony fails to figure out the right combination after all.


	40. Chapter 40

A game of Blackjack can be so evocative. Tony shuffles the pack of cards he found in a drawer – what coincidence! – as Steve makes their usual pot of tea. They’ll be playing in bed, pillows stacked neatly near the headboard for space. Last time Steve played this, Tony was strapped to a table – Ezekiel by his side, Sebastian Shaw between his thighs.

 

That was half a year ago?

 

 “Can’t find any honey, so.” Steve marches into the vicinity and places two steaming mugs on the nightstand.

 

“I’ve dealt the cards. Here.” And he studies his own hand. Tricky. An eight and… he peeks at the second card at its corner… a picture. “OK. I’m good.”

 

“Hit me.”

 

Tony slides the topmost card facedown towards Steve. He peers at it, and chuckles.

 

“I’m gonna assume you’re done, too.” Tony sets his cards face-up. “Eighteen.”

 

“Ah, twenty-two.”

 

“Why do I get the feeling you’re inherently terrible at card games? I don’t know if it’s the lack of luck or strategy. Let’s up the stake a bit.”

 

“We’re not gambling with money.”

 

“… Darn it.” He shuffles the cards again, mind wandering to nowhere decent. “Strip poker?”

 

“No.”

 

“How about,” he deals two cards, facedown, on Steve’s side of the bed. “We trade truths. If I win, I get to ask questions. If you win, well… I do the dishes.”

 

“Right.” A faint upward curve grows on Steve’s lips.

 

Tony has fifteen this time. “Hitting it!” And gets a seven. The game has come full circle in two rounds, what a night. Steve draws from the pile.

 

“Twenty-two. You win, Steve.”

 

“… I got twenty-two, too.”

 

Tony wins the next round, seventeen to Steve’s twenty-three.

 

“Tell me about your family.”

 

Steve chews his tongue as he assembles the cards into a neat stack. The issue about family has never really crop up, and the closest they’ve come to touching this topic was when Tony dismiss the idea of visiting _his_ family – the very same that’d disowned him for being gay.

 

“My father was a drunk. Well, he wasn’t, _before._ During the recession, he lost his job and just couldn’t bounce back. He changed, took to the bottle and started hitting Mom. He wasn’t exactly Father of the Year material, but I do miss the time when home had some semblance of normalcy.”

 

Tony takes his cards but the numbers don’t automatically compute. “We can pay your folks a visit sometime. I can come with you.”

 

“To the cemetery, you mean.”

 

“… I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. They passed when I was sixteen. I went through the whole system. Went from house to house, never stayed more than a year in any. Anyway,” he lays his cards on the mattress. “Figure I shouldn’t take the risk this time around. Sixteen.”

 

Tony draws a card and promptly shows his hand. “Twenty.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“Don’t show me your cards like that. It’s premature. This isn’t just about hitting close to twenty-one, you know. It’s the whole package. The poker face, the bluff.”

 

“… I don’t want to do that when I’m home.” A muscle in his temple tick and hurriedly, he adds, “Anyway, you win. What’s the next question?”

 

“You were telling your story. Go on.”

 

“Right, I was…”

 

“You were sixteen.”

 

“That. Three years later I got tired of it, so I signed up for the Army when I was nineteen.” He waves his hand over the deck. “You deal.”

 

“I’m gonna win this round anyway. By all means, finish your story.”

 

“Cocky.”

 

“My ground state, you mean?”

 

“You already know this part, Tony. The Kosovo Tour? And that short-term stint with Maria and N & N after I got back?”

 

Sounds like that’s all he’s going to get out of Steve for tonight. That’s plenty enough. He doesn’t care about winning anymore – has he in the first place? – and stops at seventeen. When Steve declares twenty-one – what are the odds! – he submits to his defeat and hangs his head in mocked shame.

 

“OK. I’ll get the mugs, then –”

 

“Don’t I get a question in? It’s only fair.”

 

That twenty-one has to count for something more, he agrees. He sits back and pulls the cards into his lap. “Shoot.”

 

“How’s your research going? The one about that drug-dealing organisation.”

 

“… You’ve been waiting for an opening to ask me that, haven’t you?”

 

Steve fixes Tony with a level look, unreadable, infuriating as it is intimidating. Nobody cares about Blackjack anymore.

 

“If I ask you to stop, right now, will you?”

 

“Why? Maybe I already have.”

 

“You haven’t. And you must. Tony, _listen_ , just once? Stop.”

 

Tony clambers off the edge of the bed. “It’s my job, Steve. Stopping now would be, uh, obstruction of justice –”

 

“Oh, come _on_ –”

 

“What you’re asking of me is irrational, and impossible. I _told_ you I have to get to the bottom of this. Or are you doubting my ability to –”

 

“I don’t doubt that at all, and that’s _exactly_ why I need you to stop. You have no idea what you’re messing with –”

 

“And you do?”

 

Steve grits his teeth, furious beyond believe. Tony has never seen him this way, and he doesn’t care. They have an agreement here, for God’s sake – mutual respect and trust for their vocations, because there is _nothing_ , absolutely _nothing_ that is more important than serving justice.

 

“Stop,” Steve whispers. His eyes soften a little. “I’m begging you. Before it’s too late.”

 

“I can’t, Steve. You know that. Why is this so important to you?”

 

“… _You_ are important to me.”


	41. Chapter 41

Tony walks away.

 

The studio cabin doesn’t afford much solitariness, so he sets up his station in the kitchen and tasks himself with the washing up. There are mugs and skewers and tongs and who knows that two dudes fooling around the BBQ grill can lead to so much junk in the sink. He pretends the gunk sticks to each utensil like cement, and is more than glad to take his sweet time scrubbing stainless steel ware until he sees the pore on his reflection’s nose.

 

Steve has been silent.

 

If they’re going to have another round of civil discussion, it’ll be _after_ his blood is no longer pumping in his ear and this self-righteous internal voice that keeps going _me-me-me_ has settled down. He slams his palm over the soap dispenser and suds fly everywhere.

 

Where _is_ Steve?

 

He looks over his shoulder towards the bedroom where they just had such an open, earnest heart-to-heart – only to find it empty. A small movement catches his peripheral vision, and there Steve is, on the deck by the grill, talking on his phone.

 

His eyes meet Tony’s across the distance.

 

Feeling heat rising off his back, Tony returns to harassing his dishes in the sink. This is stupid – he jabs his sponge in between the prongs – he finally has Steve to himself for three entire days and this is how they’re going to spend the rest of the night, stewing in their private corners? That’s good money wasted – let’s be practical about things, yes? But, watching soapy water gush down the drain hole reminds him of Steve’s troubled self by the bathroom door.

 

And then, he’s not angry anymore.

 

A chair scrapes against the floor behind him. He glances at the kettle – he sees Steve sitting at the dining table, picking at the table cloth. On one hand, it’s good that Steve wants to take the bull by the horn.

 

“Sebastian Shaw called.”

 

Tony almost loses his grip on a glass plate. He turns off the tap. “What does he want?”

 

“He needs some help with his Sub. You met him, I wonder if you remember –”

 

“Ezekiel Stane. Hell of a guy.”

 

“… Yes. Shaw needs another Dom to train him.”

 

“Why?”

 

“We didn’t discuss this in details. If I were to say yes, I’ll have to meet Ezekiel myself to diagnose the problem.”

 

Needing something to do with his hands, he takes a dishtowel and starts drying his mugs. “So, you agreed to help them?”

 

“… No. I might be wrong, but gut feelings tell me he doesn’t need more training. He needs help.” At Tony’s questioning look he adds, “Professional help.”

 

“What’s wrong with Zeke?”

 

“… Have you heard of Alchemax?”

 

Tony’s heart stutter. “Rhodey covered their press conference some weeks ago. It was a spin-off before Shaw Industries acquire it, and Zeke is now CEO.” In that split second, he’s reminded of SB909 and the whole scandal that tags along with it. “Last time we spoke, Zeke was fine. What changed?”

 

“Not sure,” Steve shrugs. “Shaw suspects the pressure of running a company is finally getting to him. I don’t think more disciplining is going to help his case. But, that’s me.”

 

If only Steve knows how deep Alchemax is in shit. And it suddenly hits him that _he_ holds the future of the freaking company in his hand. Belatedly he realises his own mouth is hanging open at the revelation, and too late – Steve’s almighty frown has emerged. He replaces his dried mug on the rack with a flourish so he can face the wall and be properly alarmed _._

 

He has evidence to implicate Alchemax’s SB909 to Barnes’ drugs. If there’s even so much as a _hint_ to the illicitness of this affair, guess whose neck is up on the ATF block, and guess who’s sitting in his kitchen searching him with bullshit-piercing scrutiny?

 

“Something bothering you, Tony?”

 

“… Is it always this black and white, Steve?” He turns around again to look Steve squarely in the eye. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

 

“That has been your M.O. all along. It has a charming… naivete to it.”

 

“If we compromise, it’s chaos. If nobody respects the system –”

 

“Compromise also allows forgiveness and second chances.”

 

“You have to pay your dues.”

 

“Some have _already_ paid them, and more.”

 

Are they even on the same page here?

 

“Steve,” and he pauses. If he drops the ball now, there’s no turning back. But, if he could chisel at the organisation, one fragment at a time, he’ll get there one day. And this is just. “You asked about my research. I’m telling you now.” He drops the damp cloth on the counter and takes the chair beside Steve. “I have Alchemax on my radar for a while now.” He shouldn’t overclaim. “I’ve evidence that their patented compound is an active chemical in the seasonal drugs the organisation is selling.”

 

Steve’s expression darkens. “You’re saying Alchemax is dealing drugs now.”

 

“No. No, I’m saying that _someone_ in Alchemax is supplying the organisation with ingredients.”

 

“Tony, you know I can’t let this slide.”

 

“… I know.”

 

“What’s your intention? Why tell me now, or at all?”

 

“I will bring the case to the authority, one way or another,” he sighs. “How is this going to fare for Zeke?”

 

“Poorly. He is CEO.”

 

But, it must be done.

 

“I have to ask you to turn in your notes and documents, we’ll make it official.” Steve drops his gaze to the table. “We’ll take it from here. Please stop investigating? You already have your story.”

 

“Outing Alchemax is incidental. You know what I’m gunning for.”

 

“I assure you, we have it covered. If we make this case official –”

 

“I can’t leave it yet.”

 

Steve folds his hands over his laps. “It’s not worth it, Tony. _I’m_ not worth it.”

 

Tony blinks. His brain is like Slurpee, he can’t catch up. “You’re always worth it. But, what are you talking about now?”

 

“I told you to leave it, so many times before. What happened to me with them, with Bucky –” Steve looks away. “Let it go. If something happens to you, I won’t – can’t live with myself.”

 

“That’s my decision to make.”

 

“I’m trying to make this work!”

 

“And I’m not?” Tony snaps back. “Hell, on the grander scheme of things, we both don’t even matter. What they did to you they could’ve done to others, and I have the means to end this. Don’t tell me you can’t relate.”

 

He’s tired. He’s done. He ups and makes for the bedroom, shuffling past Steve only to be drawn into the familiar refuge of Steve’s arms. Just like hours ago, Steve digs his chin into the crook of Tony’s neck, breaths in like all the air he needs is there. Tony closes his eyes, hears the beating of his heart subside.

 

Steve squeezes him around the back, fingers closing around his shoulders. This close, he feels minute tremor coursing Steve’s body.

 

“Steve?”

 

Steve’s chin tunnels deeper into his neck. “Please,” he exhales uncertainly. “Stop your meetings with Bucky.”


	42. Chapter 42

Tony stands there as stiff as a scarecrow, lets Steve hold him together as if the straws are falling apart. He can keep up with the charade, all is not lost. Tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, he pretends Steve hasn’t said anything.

 

“You’ve done enough,” but Steve speaks again. “Thank you. Now you got to step back.”

 

He can’t help it. He cups the small of Steve’s neck and mumbles into his ear, “Give me one lousy reason. Maybe I will.”

 

“… I can’t.” Of course, Steve can’t. Tony struggles somewhat, trying to break free. So much for open communication.

 

“It’s a two-way street. If I’m stopping my investigation, it’s not because I’m doing you a favour. So, help me, explain why you’re _insisting_ –”

 

“I can’t!” Tony winces as Steve crushes him in his embrace. Involuntary, he hopes, and with their chests flush against one another, he feels the maddening pumping of Steve’s heart. “I can’t. I’m breaking protocol just telling you.”

 

“Yeah? Then, no deal, Steve. It doesn’t work this way.” He shrugs, but Steve’s clinched on him. “Let me go.” If he’s got to punch his way out of this one... “Steve,” he pushes against Steve’s stomach, hard. “Let go.”

 

Suddenly, he’s standing on his own, Steve a respectful distance away. So, he takes off.

 

* * *

 

Tony is the last to use the bathroom. He showers, brushes his teeth and hobbles into the bedroom where Steve is already half-hidden under the sheets. Steve’s taken the _other_ side of the bed, the one facing the wall.

 

Tony sighs, and changes out of his day clothes.

 

Even milk doesn’t sour this fast.

 

Steve’s shoulders rise and dip in measured rhythms. As slowly as he can manage, Tony sidles under the shared blanket, tucks one arm under his head, and lies down. He lets Steve’s deep breathing lull him to half-sleep, thinking how he has no idea in handling tomorrow.

 

Steve can’t convince him to drop the case.

 

So, he’ll test his mettle himself. He keeps his eyes trained on Steve’s sleeping profile in the dimness of residual moonlight. He recalls how Barnes had put him through the wringer. If he feels one ounce of regret, of guilt that this is hurting Steve more than it should?

 

Subconsciously, he seeks out Steve’s fingers under the blanket. It’s a loose fist, and he tightens his grip –

 

Suddenly, sheets and pillows shift under and around him, and Steve – not slumbering as deeply as he’d expected – is on top of him, bracketing him with his form. Steve’s knee finds its way to nudge gently against his crotch. He’s locked in place – immobile, but not trapped.

 

“… It’s past midnight. Aren’t you tired?”

 

“Power napped.”

 

“Of course, you did.”

 

Steve leans in, and rocks his hip against Tony’s. Tame, casual – neither is hard, and Tony can’t quite forget Steve’s unsought opinion on his witch hunt. He shakes his head and stills Steve about his shoulder.

  
“Tony,” Steve fiddles with Tony’s waistband. “Let’s just have this, just us? Anything else can wait until morning.”

 

So, he accepts Steve’s first kiss, meek and tender, until he throws all inhibition to the wind and devours Steve so completely. They thrash in bed with more aggression than necessary, elbows and knees jabbing everywhere. Even simple groping leaves blunt aches in their wake, and Tony welcomes them. Out there, he swears his principles won’t be shaken, not by money, power – not even Steve can make him waver. In here? In here, he deals in whatever currency Steve dictates. He’s bribed.

 

“God, you still owe me one from before.” Steve tugs his pants free and shamelessly, he spreads his legs.

 

Come on, come _on_ –

 

“Permission, Tony?”

 

With Steve, there’s _always_ a catch. Like vanilla has gone out in style. He groans in frustration, and Steve rubs idle circles against his inner thighs, mere inches from where it truly _matters._

 

“Tony?”

 

“Yes. Permission granted –”

 

He stuffs his mouth with his knuckles when Steve grabs his cock and flattens it against his lower abdomen. The windows are opened dammit, and there’s the neighbour who might not take too kindly to wild, impromptu romp between two dudes –

 

“Tell you what,” Steve smooches his balls, and Tony feels his knees buckle. “If you leak enough from here,” his thumb ghosts over the swollen head, and a string of precum glistens from his digit, “to here,” warm fingers fondle the taut sacs, “I’ll finish you whatever way you want.”

 

Just hearing the proposition makes his cock twitch. Steve hasn’t touched it properly yet.

 

“Deal?”

 

Tony nods feverishly. Vanilla be fucked.

 

But, good God, he should’ve known Steve wouldn’t have made this as easy as his reptilian brain thought it would. The unspoken catch is – and Tony moans against his fist, part pleasure part withheld agony – the only form of stimulation he’s getting is Steve’s incessant licking and sucking on his balls.

 

Not fucking _enough._

 

“Steve,” he’s desperate enough to plead. “More…”

 

Steve opens up, takes as much of the sac hanging before him in his mouth, and seals his lips. Tony’s hands grapple futilely at the headboard. So _warm_ , and he chokes back a cry when tongue and God knows what caress him as he’s all locked in.

 

It a mind-numbing experience, then –

 

Steve sucks like a vacuum –

 

He cries out, caught completely off guard that he thinks he accidentally kicks Steve in his spine. Did he come – God, he swears there’s a spike in his cock and it feels like it’s peeling off –

 

“Tony, relax.”

 

Try asking a pressure cooker to simmer down.

 

He reaches down and grips his cock. Still painfully rigid. His palm glistens with pre-cum, and screw that stupid rule Steve’s imposed, he needs to get off _now_ –

 

Steve’s phone buzzes from the nightstand.

 

“Sorry.” And he leaves, taking the phone with him to the deck outside of the cabin. Tony and his cock sit up with appal at the turn of event. Well, it is entirely possible to pull the plug off the pressure cooker and douse with cold water for what it's worth.

 

Honestly, it’s nothing new. They slingshot off each other, lives colliding at weekends, orbiting independently otherwise. They deal with it the best they could, but seriously…

 

Tony looks down to his lap glumly, and taps his abused cock with forlorn desires. Steve doesn’t return after ten minutes, so he dresses himself and arranges the bed. In place of his fabulous lover, he squeezes the loving stuffing out of a pillow – and soon surrenders to sleep.


	43. Chapter 43

Tony wakes up to a deadweight on his chest.

 

“What the…”

 

It’s an arm. Steve’s arm, draped over him without a care as its owner lies on his side, snoring into the sheets. It’s rare for Tony to leave the bed while Steve still sleeps in it – he suspects Steve like getting up early on purpose so he can call dibs on the kitchen and prepare breakfast.

 

So, they wouldn’t have to eat cereal and milk, charred remains of the first attempt sizzling in the sink.

 

“That was gonna be such a gastronomic experience. Out of this world,” he used to say. Once, Steve retorted, patience obviously running thin, ‘Sure it’s out of this world. You cremated the chicken.”

 

He sighs, and focuses on the golden-brown pancakes he’s frying over the stove. His own phone is sitting on the counter, and twice he’s checked his call or message log. Rhodey has gone radio silence since Saturday. How hard can it be to break open that flimsy padlock and photocopy the heck out of the box? Whatever it is Steve’s collecting, if it’s about Barnes, Tony’s game.

 

Does anybody realise how _invisible_ Barnes is to this world? Like he’s not even here. Gone. Never existed since he returned to the country with Steve et al. No address, no last jobs, no credit cards, no bills. No paper trails. And that pisses Tony off more than it should because he’s _never_ been _unable_ to track an asshole down, especially when he’s put his mind to it.

 

And his body, and his dignity…

 

Barnes’ a dead man for all he knows, without an obit and a death certificate.

 

So, whatever it is that Steve has, at least it has volume. The things Tony could do, could use to turn the tide over. Maybe information on Barnes’ missing past, unreported crimes, a brother Tony could talk to and curry favours from – heck, he’s not above blackmailing at this juncture. It’s what people do when they get desperate, and Barnes has pushed him to a corner.

 

“Pancakes?”

 

Startled, Tony drops his pancake mid-flip and it flops sadly back on the same side. Steve creeps closer, and Tony notices he hasn’t bothered with a shirt.

 

“You always make pancakes on Sundays.” Steve comes closer still until his front his flushed against Tony’s back. Until now is he acutely aware that he’s as bare-skinned as Steve is – too caught up in his thoughts to remember putting on more than a three-quarter cotton pants. “Where did you get the stuff to make them anyway? The grocery shop is fifteen minutes’ drive away.”

 

“I asked the landlord to stock up the fridge when I booked this place. Gave her a small budget and told her to get creative. Most of the meat went to BBQ yesterday…” his voice trails off as he’s suddenly made aware of Steve’s stiffening package resting against his butt. “Uh, I think she got carried away with the veal and fruit bowls, but…”

 

Steve’s making little approving nods and hums, his hands dropping to Tony’s waist. His thumbs rub circles around the jutting bone, nose caressing the side of Tony’s neck… but not enough to cross from chaste to sexual. Yesterday’s frustrations have returned in spades. Tony quells them, and sets the slightly burnt pancake on a plate.

 

“What’s the plan for today?” Steve asks instead, fingers slipping down Tony’s pelvis and the lines of his inner thighs. No way Steve doesn’t know of the riot going on between the thighs.

 

“Breakfast. Then –”

 

Then, his stomach growls obscenely loud.

 

Tony fumes inwardly as Steve takes a step back, laughing and shuffling through the cabinet for anything sickly sweet to go with their breakfast spread. What a tragedy to be continuously denied salvation by bad timing and stupid bodily functions. If a cockblocking incident happens _one more time_ , he _will_ jack off on the spot, so there.

 

“The honey is new, too. Can we bring the leftovers back? You’ve paid for them anyway, what a waste to, oh, crap –”

 

It’s like wounds taste better when salted or something, because why else would his series of misfortune end there? Steve uncaps the squeeze bottle and for whatever reason decides to crush it in his massive fists. Trapped air bubble forces honey out of the spout – a splattering mess – hitting Tony who’s perched conveniently in the line of fire, as Murphy dictates.

 

He licks the corner of his lips where some honey has landed. “Smooth, Steve. Do I need to order an exorcism on you or something?” He points at the stack of pancakes. “Set the table. I need to shower.”

 

Steve won’t have any of that. He seizes Tony around his biceps – firm, yet loose enough to break free from if he really tries – and pins him against the fridge. Honey has dribbled down his chin to his throat, and that’s where the plan of attack commences. A knee is lodged between Tony’s thighs, teasing his hard-on and keeping him in place. He doesn’t fight, just holds on to the edge of the fridge as Steve’s mouth follows wherever the honey goes. Between his collarbones, over his heart.

 

“You need this so bad, Tony,” Steve half-growls while laying wet kisses over his stomach.

 

No shit.

 

“Yeah,” he gasps. “I would’ve finished twice – at least – if you’d just –”

 

Steve clenches around Tony’s cock, barely concealed behind thin material.

 

“OK, don’t be a dick, Steve. Come on,” he thrusts his hip into Steve’s fist. Friction, perfect. More –

 

And Steve deadpans, “Fire.”

 

“… I swear to God I _will_ kick you in your chin if you –”

 

“No, Tony, fire!”

 

Steve scuffles to the sink to wet a cloth and oh, hell no –

 

Five minutes later, a wet cloth sizzles contently over a busted-up stove. Both men hover around it, watching the smoke go up around the pyre.

 

“Any last words?” Tony breaks the silence, tapping his feet as he considers how much is the compensation going to be for fire damages.

 

“You forgot to turn off the stove, didn’t you?”

 

“My downstairs brain was taking over, I don’t know,” and he exhales, exasperated. “At this rate, we’re never getting laid.”

 

“Tony.”

 

“It’s turning into an unfunny running gag.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“At least we have pancakes.”

 

They have breakfast without the blasted honey in silence, on the deck because the funeral that is the stove is appetite quenching. As Tony picks stray eggshell from his pancakes, he swears, by hook or by crook they’re going to fuck before the six o’clock news come about.

 

About God damn time.


	44. Chapter 44

“This, Steve.” Tony smacks the purple nondescript box on the garden table, forcing Steve’s foot off it. “It’s fun time!”

 

“… That’s a first.” The newspaper that Steve was perusing crinkles as he shoves it under his chair. “You’re calling Maria’s toy ‘fun’.”

 

“Point. Anyway, the question remains… what _is_ this?” to which Steve snorts and waves over the box, a gesture of be-my-guest – that insufferable grin betraying his otherwise not-so-clueless demeanour. Without further ado, Tony pulls the lid off to reveal a set of the most basic, normal-looking vials containing clear liquids. He takes one out and gives it a slosh. Nothing happens, not the slightest poof!

 

“This is kind of anticlimactic. Maybe it’s a homemade bomb kit, not putting it past her. There’s even a manual…” His eyes dart across the paper, and when he looks up at Steve again, the only thing missing is lighting cracking in the sky and a cacophony of _dun-dun-dun!_

 

“I’m ticklish? Just FYI.”

  
Steve looks even more amused as he collects the box from the table. Balancing it on his stomach, he ignores the manual, and casually studies the labels on the vials. There are three of them, all arranged snugly in foam casing, accompanied by two black cases, circular, like compact powder discs. And the weirdest item of all? A _shuttlecock_.

 

“This is a sampler for ‘The Kama Sutra Sunday Kit’. The original set is much larger and expensive.”

 

“Tell me it’s for aromatherapy.”

 

“… Erotic massage therapy,” Steve replies wryly. “I haven’t used this a lot in the past, but if you don’t mind me setting up shop here?”

 

“OK,” Tony and his dick stand up with much enthusiasm. “I’ll go get some towels and prep the bed –”

 

“Not the bedroom. _Here_.” And Steve draws himself to full height, blue eyes boring into Tony’s. “Permission, Tony?” Steve inclines forward, lips brushing Tony’s. “Just one word. I’ll show you.”

 

“… I think it’s gonna end pretty soon for me, Steve,” he breathes out. He’s itching to smash his groin into Steve’s, show him what he’s packing. “Hell, if the blueness of my balls is any indication –”

 

“The more reason to make it count. Let me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

They care not if the landlord across the street is watering her daffodils as she usually does in the morning. Steve claims Tony in a feverish kiss, bumping noses and erections as they battle for the same standing spot. To become one, as physically close as it gets – but patience, God damn patience and self-restraint is what he needs.

 

He lets Steve go.

 

“OK?”

 

He nods. “What’s the plan?”

 

“Sit here. I’m not sure how far low this recliner chair can go.”

 

Tony cranks a handle by the side and gives the backrest a push, and all the way it goes to become one horizontal table. “Looks good.”

 

“I’ll go get the towels. Stay here.”

 

Tony sits on the fully-reclined chair and turns himself around so he’s facing the landlord’s window. Yeah, no – he’s not going full-frontal with _anyone_ in the vicinity so they could get their freak on – this obviously calls for a major, impromptu renovation. He repositions the BBQ grill, the _other_ reclining chair and a rusty bicycle that he thinks is there for decorative purposes in front of him. When Steve returns cradling his supplies, Tony promptly grabs a towel and drapes it over the bicycle.

 

There, a self-assembled partition for his peace of mind.

 

“Modesty is _not_ backward thinking,” he shrugs as Steve appraises the setup.

 

“Sure it isn’t. Strip.”

 

“Pass me the towel.”

 

Steve holds out a fluffy white one, and the soonest he reaches out to take it, Steve’s free hand jabs out of nowhere to grab him by the cock – he hasn’t the time to process it, just shock and a dull pressure, unpleasant. He gasps, and falls forward into Steve’s chest.

 

“Safeword?”

 

“Banana.”

 

“Do you want to use it?”

 

Steve’s fist tightens around his pulsing cock. He squeezes his eyes. “No.”

 

“I’ve spoiled you. Cross the line once more, and you’ll see.” Mercifully, Steve eases his grip, and the rush of blood sends tingles all over his crotch. It’s hardly titillating, but he’s stiffer than ever that the merest touch suffices. And Steve knows to hold it ransom. His hand plunges into Tony’s waistband to cup his balls, and pump the length in one, torturous stroke. “I can give you release. I can deny it. It’s up to you. Understood?”

 

“… Yeah.”

 

“Let’s try again. Strip.”

 

This time, Steve doesn’t offer the towel.

 

Tony can take a hint. He pulls his shirt off first, and hands it to Steve. He shrugs his pants from his waist, and hesitates as that too, he hands to Steve. Completely naked, he crosses one leg over a knee and sits upright, his heart in his mouth because this is too damn open. The skyline, the sprawling city of Southern California before them –

 

“Let me see you, Tony.”

 

If he could lose himself in Steve, forget the world –

 

“Open your legs. That’s it. Look at you.”

 

He swears, if Steve instructs him to touch himself, it’ll be a money shot right there and then.

 

“Lie down.”

 

He scoots up the chair and obeys, propping his chin up on his forearms. That’s the agenda for today – obey. Very challenging. Not coded in his DNA.

 

He’s too edgy to enjoy the view as is. And Steve, the sneaky SOB has stationed himself slightly out of his line of sight. It’s working, Steve’s attempt at drumming up the anxiety. There are bottles being uncapped, and the reclining chair depresses when Steve straddles him about his waist.

 

“Are you still writing product reviews for Maria?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you want me to read the labels, so you know what I’m using on you?”

 

Tony huffs into the crook of his elbows. “If you can pass me my tablet, I’ll gladly take notes.”

 

When Steve says nothing for three full seconds, Tony curses under his breath. It’s not going to be an easy Sunday afternoon, after all.


	45. Chapter 45

“Roll over, Tony.”

 

Obediently, he does. His dick precedes him, nothing he can do about. And he’s caught off guard when Steve brandishes that infernal coil of red, nylon rope – _why_ would somebody bring that that to a staycation? steve’s unfolding it like it’s a gardening hose, and that makes Tony nervous. He looks around for swishing curtains or rustling bushes.

   

“Keep still.”

 

Steve loops the rope around the base of his cock and pulls, forming a knot that sits comfortably on his sac. It’s a loose noose, so what is it supposed to achieve?

 

“Turn over.”

 

He obeys again, and the rope pools under him around his thighs. Steve reaches down and tugs – he hisses at the discomfort, and his heart picks up the beat – and fastens the other end of the rope to a leg of the chair.

 

“Hump the chair.”

 

“… What the chair?”

 

“Tell me if the knot is too tight.”

 

Still not quite getting it, he obeys – word of the day, people – and lifts his hip. It snags – the rope pulls him down and his breath stutters. He’s anchored to the chair. He rolls his hip, feeling his cock strain against the forces.

 

“Any pain?”

 

“No,” he gasps, hands clutching the sides of the chair tightly. “What if gangrene sets in?”

 

“Tony, I swear –”

 

“OK, sorry, didn’t mean that.”

 

He keeps still, very still, because he’s very fond of his cock. Don’t want to part ways with it, ever.

 

“Relax.” Steve’s palms, slick with oil, settle suddenly against his shoulders, kneading the knots away. “I’m calling out the names anyway. This is ‘Original Oil of Love’ –”

 

Tony bursts out laughing – he swears to God, he can’t help it. “Wait, wait! You can’t punish me, Steve. I’m not trying to wisecrack here but you’re not making this easy.”

 

“I’m not cruel.”

 

“… You’re doing this on purpose.”

 

“Maybe.” Nimble fingers rub more oil into the crooks of his necks, delving into his collarbones. “I’m not joking about the name though.”

 

“Yeah. I doubt you’ll ever come up with anything as original as ‘Original Oil of Love’.”

 

The heel of Steve’s palms slide down the trench of his spine. What feels like too often, Steve would lift to get more oil, and already he’s missing the pressure. Then, it gets warm. Where Steve touches it smoulders, and he forgets about his nakedness altogether.

 

Until Steve drops his attention to his buttocks.

 

He twitches, and his still too swollen cock protests beneath him.

 

Self-awareness returns in full blow when Steve spreads his cheeks for anybody down the hill to see, if they’d bother to look up. He struggles some more, rope strangling his cock be damned.

 

“Steve, come on –”

 

“Not up to you, Tony.”

 

Steve lets go anyway, and that’s all that matters. He next pulls the thighs apart, until Tony’s feet are dangling off the chair. This new position isn’t an improvement. The underside of his balls now in full display, Steve dabs something over them, something that feels rough in texture. Also creamy, unlike the slick oil his back is covered in.

 

It doesn’t take long for him to feel its effects.

 

“That is the ‘Spearmint Stimulating Pleasure Balm’. How’s it?”

 

“… It stings?”

 

It’s spearmint all right. That piercingly, cooling sensation on his most sensitive patch of skin and flesh…

 

“Good?”

 

“Not really?”

 

“That’s for the whining.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“I _have_ been pampering you, Tony. For today,” he slaps once on Tony’s left butt cheek. “Obey.”

 

He learns quickly that what Steve meant by “obey” is “not talking”. Every quip is rewarded by a dab of Spearmint Balm on his balls, between his balls and anus, the back of his _ears,_ what the hell –

 

He has no complaints, though for the larger part of their session. Steve’s been loving his thighs for the past five minutes, a generous coat of Love Oil accentuating the massage. When three fingers dig into the back of his knees, Tony moans in surprise – a newfound erogenous zone?

 

The touches soften substantially after that. Steve’s no longer seeking to discipline, but to pleasure. His hands creep higher into the folds of Tony’s nether regions, not quite touching, yet too sensual to be anything but. Fingernails sometimes scrape along his balls, and Tony would arch his back –as much as his restraints would allow.

 

He wants those hands around and on where it truly matters. He’s been trapped long enough.

 

“I’m untying you. Hold still.”

 

Tony makes a lazy thumb-up, and Steve crouches to undo the knot. He bites his lips and shut his eyes, he’s so close to _begging_ –

 

“Lie on your back.”

 

And Tony reveals his weeping erection to Steve, Steve who’s staring at it so guardedly.

 

“What do you want me to do, Tony?”

 

It’s driving him up the walls – Steve wants his opinions, Steve _doesn’t want_ his opinion –

 

Steve strokes a nipple with his Spearmint Balm-covered finger. He works at it, in tight circles as Tony labours to keep still and silent. He looks to his side – to the flowerpots – his teeth clenching. His body is set aflame in sporadic little splotches over his body.

 

“Let me hear you.”

 

An oily fist closes over the tip of his cock. Tony balks so hard the chair creaks under his weight.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

So damn _close._

“… Gonna come.”


	46. Chapter 46

“Count to ten.”

 

“One, four, seven – OK, _Christ_. Don’t –” Steve only has to jerk at the nylon rope to rein him in. “Don’t touch it. I’m gonna come –”

 

“Thought you’d like that?” The rope tugs again, and Tony’s forehead scrunches with concentration. Feels like a premature if he let go now. So, in a showcase of massive balls – which by this point, have also manifested physically – he grabs the rope himself, loops it twice around his knuckles and smirks. “I’m up for something more challenging. Thought _you’d_ like that?”

 

That’s all the defiance he could muster in the world. Punish him. Steve can do whatever if it means staving off his climax.

 

“Let go, OK? I want to remove this,” finally, Steve acquiesces, and that’s only because Tony looks like he’s ready to sever the rope with a garden secateurs.

 

Hail to victorious Tony.

 

“Wait –”

 

Rope now lying uselessly on the ground, Steve drops to his knees in one fell swoop, locks Tony’s legs under his arms and leans in. He takes the bulging cock into his mouth, all the way in until Tony feels himself scraping against something – throat, the inside of Steve’s cheek?

 

He’s only half-aware of the noises he’s making.

 

“Coming –”

 

His back arches that the rusty joints of the chair groan with him. He unloads so completely into Steve, so sorry for not pulling out in time.

 

For better or worse, he lies on his back deeply sated and breathless, eyes closed against the warmth of afternoon sun. His mind registers Steve as the vague presence rubbing soothing circles over a knee.

 

“Happy?” he bops Steve lightly over the top of his head. “What was that for?”

 

“Who says I’d let you go after coming once?”

 

He sees it so clearly now, diabolism streaking Steve’s near-perfect poker face. But, he thinks biology will win over this one. He prods at the limp flesh in between his thighs. “Yeah, no. It needs a break.”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

Steve stands up and brushes dirt from his knees. His crotch now at Tony’s eye level, silently begging for its own release that Tony almost reaches out to stroke it.

 

Then, he remembers how Steve threw him to the ground the last time he pulled that trick.

 

When Steve offers him a hand, he takes it and smiles. He _doesn’t_ offer Steve anything, and as he is led into the kitchen for presumably lunch, he gives Steve’s fingers a little squeeze.

 

The only freebie he could .

 

They soon have something boiling on the stove, something baking in the oven, and something burnt in the sink.

 

“By the way,” Tony pops roasted chestnut into his mouth. “That was a _terrible_ massage. I feel half-done, if you know what I mean. What about my front?”

 

Steve stirs his pot calmly. “I would’ve, if you lasted a bit longer.”

 

So, Tony drops his next chestnut into Steve’s boiling water.

 

“Let’s switch? _I_ do the massage on you using whatever we haven’t sampled from the kit.”

 

“There’s not really enough for experiments.”

 

“That’s Maria being a cheapskate.”

 

“It’s a kit. It’s a one-time use.”

 

When they have their lunch spread ready, Steve pokes moodily at his meatballs. Tony watches as Steve raze the content of his plate like guerrilla doing a jungle sweep, methodically from six o’clock to twelve, and suddenly he feels a pang of concern. He nudges Steve’s knee under the table, and aforementioned concern immediately evaporates when Steve admits, “I was thinking how much better lunch would be if served _on_ a Tony platter.”

 

Before the hour ended, they’re back on the deck, Tony reclining in the chair.

 

“Part two?” he asks, slipping shades over his nose. “Don’t be mean, Steve.”

 

“Permission?”

 

“Yes.”

 

This time, Steve goes about the massage like a certified masseuse. Precise control and pressure. Perfectly managed. Tony melts away under those skilful hands.

 

“Did you take classes for this?”

 

“No,” Steve’s fingers fan out over his stomach, the heel of his palms kneading his flesh. Maybe that’s good for indigestion or something. “Not officially, at least. One of Maria’s partners is a masseuse by trade, a Dom whom I happened to train under for a short while.”

 

“He showed you the rope,” Tony smirks.

 

“Lift your waist.”

 

Steve slides the pants off and for the second time that day, he’s naked in the open, but with half the embarrassment. That’s progress.

 

“You’re hard again, Tony.”

 

Like he said, progress.

 

Steve works on his feet, calves and shins, thighs – then, expertly avoids the Bermuda Triangle of his pelvis. He peeks at himself down there, and grins lazily. Steve never said how long he’s going to keep up with the edging, and that anticipation alone is enough to drive him all kinds of crazy.

 

All kinds of nuts?

 

“Almond,” he wriggles his nose. He removes his shades and takes a deep breath. “You smell that, Steve? Almond. Is it coming from the kitchen? I made damn sure I turn everything off before we come here.”

 

“Oh, that’s the, uh,” Steve holds up the vial before his eyes, “’Sweet Almond Massage Oil’.”

 

“… Seriously, they need to fire whoever’s in-charge of naming their products. By the way, never know what this is for.”

 

He strikes first and steals the shuttlecock from the kit. He flips it from front to back, and frowns at how flimsy the piece is constructed. “It has no label. Doesn’t look like it can take a hit from a badminton racquet either.”

 

“It’s a feather applicator.”

 

“An applicator, huh?” He runs the feather-end along his nose, and freezes. “Idiot. Gonna sneeze.”

 

It’s probably another torture device, he thinks darkly as he pinches his nose. The kind that’s meant for tickling people to the brink of blacking out, that makes laughing so painful and tenuous.

 

Naturally, he runs the feather-end along the outer shell of Steve’s ear. Boy, the way Steve jumps into the air?

 

“All right there, Steve?”

 

“Don’t do that.”

 

“Here’s the deal. Teach me how I can use this… applicator properly. I won’t goof around with it, cross my heart.”

 

That’s a _sweet_ deal. Having Steve squirm breathless at his mercy, giving him what he needs – damn, he wants to love Steve a different way tonight.

 

“OK,” Steve agrees, and promptly drops his jeans to the ground.


	47. Chapter 47

Tony stares at Steve’s erection unblinkingly, his brain thinking fast about what exactly Steve is expecting him to do here. Not saying he’s drawing a complete blank, but add the feather applicator to the mix, one really has to wonder.

 

“This stuff is pretty light, so take care not to spill or inhale it.”

 

Steve gives him the other black compact disc, the one that’s still unopened. It says “Sweet Honeysuckle Honey Dust” – go figure. Carefully, he twists the cap open, and scowls when he finds _golden glitter_ in it.

 

“I’m not being uh, sexist or anything, but d’you think this kit is better-suited for chicks? Might also mean Maria’s dicking with me, but that’s par the usual –”

 

“Dip the end of the feather into the dust. No, don’t go at it like a rhino, Christ, that thing’s expensive.”

 

“OK. What next?”

 

“… Fairly obvious, isn’t it?”

 

At that, Tony looks up from the glitter, and briefly contemplates Steve’s jerking cock. He looks up higher, past the snail trail, the navel, and observes the grin slowly forming on Steve’s lips. And _ah!_ it feels like Christmas has come early. He goes for the kill, twirls the feather about the sensitive tip. Gold glitter adheres to where precum has beaded. Steve’s jaws are set, but he’s quiet, his chest rising and falling with even measure. Tony drags the feather back, by the prominent vein that runs along the length. More gold glitter falls off the feather.

 

He looks up again, and catches the low hood of Steve’s eyelids over his dark irises, slightly blown. He shudders for a minutest second, swallows thickly, and reaffirms his posture as Tony sweeps the feathers over his balls.

 

“More glitter, Steve?” Tony asks nonchalantly. He’s about to dip the end of the feathers into the dust again when a sweet smell of… honey catches his nostrils.

 

He dips a finger into the dust and promptly sticks it into his mouth.

 

“Tony!”

 

“Hmm,” tongue making a quick show, lapping at his digit. “Honey. As expected.”

 

“God, are you _seven_? Don’t go putting things into your mouth –”

 

“Relax. It’s edible. See?” As tempting as it is to down the entire stock of glitter for kicks and giggles, he relents and holds up the container cover so Steve can have a better look. “Says so right there.” Though it’s not written in the largest of fonts...

 

This fairy powder looks pretty, tastes pretty, and Steve’s cock is covered in them, so.

 

Steve’s knees buckle a fraction when Tony wraps his mouth around the shaft, going as deeply as he can in his first try. His throat clenches and he gags, so he clamps down and _not move_ – like it helps – but Steve somehow wavers and drops the plastic cover from his grip. There’s uncertainty in the look he places on Tony.

 

Uncertainty that’s quickly buried under restrained lust and greed. Tony slurps, swallows honey-flavoured saliva already pooling under his tongue.

 

“Tony…”

 

There’s a lot of those glitter decorating Steve’s balls. Completely out of reach, unless he endoscopes his thyroid with Steve’s cock. He sucks, eager like he’s paid to, and slows down when Steve’s brows pinch. The dust masks the natural taste of precum well – a big plus – so sue him, he got overenthusiastic.

 

“Sorry,” he pulls away when Steve gasps, a wince crossing his features. “Did I hurt you?”

 

“… No, I got uh, too sensitive.”

 

“OK,” Tony tucks his chin and angles his face to where Steve’s glittering sac is. “This foreplay has gone on way too long. Just fuck me already –”

 

He’s suddenly flat on his back, the rough surface of the reclining chair a miserable scratch on his skin. Steve is on him, all over him. With so little airspace, the scent of almond and honey is almost intoxicating.

 

“Feel that?” Steve’s hip moves against him, and he feels something digging into his anus. Just scrapping past, suggestive. “Anyway, I’ll be driving us back to the dorm tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

 

That’s when the garden’s gate scrapes against the ground. That’s when reality starts ticking again and between trading “Oh shit!” and looks of horror, both are sent scrambling for discarded clothes and towels. By the time their landlady appears in the vicinity Tony – still topless – is seated on the reclining chair with his thighs spread apart, while Steve is kneeling in front of him amid fastening on his jeans.

 

She’s gone in a hurried mumble of apology.

 

“Damn. I think she brought us pie. Could’ve left that on the grill or something. I mean, where’s the hurry?”

 

They’re also as erect as yesterday’s bean curd, so they decide to spend the next two hours flying kites from the deck instead.

 

“Frankly, at this point, I won’t be surprised to find a telescope stashed behind the sunflower bed. Imagine stargazing after dinner!”

 

They have five kites of various shapes and sizes swaying with the breeze silhouetted against the setting sun. And in those lousy two hours, everything seems simple. The kite goes too high, he reels it in. Too low, he lets go. He dreads the passing of Sunday because this here? This sexcapade he's having - it's enabling his anxiety.

 

Rhodey finally got in touch with him a quarter after five. The message had one word:

 

_Done._

 

When it's inky black with a smattering of orange and red at the horizon, he can’t see their kites anymore, though their strings are still taut. He can barely make out Steve's outline, though he feels Steve shadowing his frame.

 

And Steve doesn’t ask for permission – _that permission_ – he drops his hands to Tony’s waistband, and squeezes.

 

The intent is clear, and Tony allows it.

 

Divested of his pants, he leans further against the railing, almost half-bent in the cloak of night.

 

“Last item in the kit is ‘Love Liquid Sensual Lubricant’,” Steve says, and Tony hears something being uncapped. “The only item made specifically for the genitals.” A finger pushes past the tight sphincter. Tony winces, and purses his lips. He’d expect this, but not too quickly.

 

But, what need do they have for foreplays?

 

Steve works almost feverishly, faster and fiercer than Tony is used to. They need this so bad, and Tony will take it all, the pain and the –

 

“Tony –”

 

Steve thrusts once, as deeply as he dares to go, and Tony resists against clenching down on the intrusion. He regulates his breathing to the chirps of the crickets, and steadies himself against the handrail.

 

Finally. _Finally_.

 

He dares not touch himself, even as his cock bumps into the baluster as Steve fucks him as is. The discomfort grows as the sex gets rougher – and he stifles his cries each time Steve changes his angles and rams just as hard as before. His chin rests against his chest, his knuckles white over the wood –

 

“Tony,” he hears his name on Steve’s breath. “Tony…”

 

Steve’s large hands securing him by his waist possessively.

 

He needs this just as much, just a _bit more_ –

 

Sweaty fingers curl around his cock and pumps, as rough as the pounding in his behind, in-sync, desperate. The railing starts creaking – their anthem – climbing and falling with their moaning and calling for each other, to high heavens.

 

“ _Please_ …”

 

Steve milks him for all he’s worth – fist clenching around his base as he ejaculates freely into the side of the hill, Steve’s cock an insistent pressure against his prostate. He gives up keeping his volume down, but finds himself muted regardless, so consumed in his release. And Steve does _not_ let go. At the slightest release of his inner muscles, Steve resumes fucking him, more furious than before towards his own climax.

 

But, it’s fine. Both too sated to complain about careless markings on their bodies.

 

“Mine,” Steve reasserts before he pulls Tony’s limp body towards himself.


	48. Chapter 48

Tony stirs in his seat, strapped in by the seatbelt where he groans audibly. Technically he’s on leave, but the Monday blues is real. It did _not_ help that Steve decided to blow him again too early in the morning because he was doing his best ignoring the alarm clock, and then stuck a finger up where it felt best because Steve Rogers is a certified asshole, glorious pun fully intended. He came all over themselves, gasping into his pillows and blinking himself to reality because what the heck…

 

Fantastic vitality aside –

 

Steve spares Tony a sideway glance. “You OK?”

 

“… Sore.”

 

“Anything we should be worried about?”

 

“Nah, I think I pulled a muscle. I think I’m cramping.”

 

Steve laughs, “Too bad. I was going to ask you to masturbate in the car – in-house entertainment so to speak.”

 

Tony shakes his head and pulls out his cell phone. He hasn’t returned Rhodey’s message, and now’s a good time as any. The traffic is smooth, Steve is preoccupied with driving – the sensible person he is, hands on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock positions. To _not_ arouse any suspicion, keeping his cool is key, so he scrolls through his message log to locate Rhodey’s and –

 

“Work?” Steve asks, his eyes suddenly flickering to the rearview mirror.

 

“Yeah.”

 

That isn’t a lie.

 

He types a quick one:

 

_Same place at 3 p.m. Bring a box of pizza. Important. I’ll pay you later._

 

“Tony,” and Tony himself freezes at the sound of his name, “you think… after this is over, we can, I don’t know, go somewhere? Clean slate, start over?”

 

He has to replay what Steve just said three times over in his head because he’s unsure if he’s getting it.

 

“Start over?”

 

“Yes. No, not you and me,” and Steve takes his eyes off the road just long enough to glance at Tony apologetically. “That was a good weekend.”

 

“It was. But, I’m not sure I’m following.”

 

“When… when these jobs, when you’re done with your case, we can consider moving elsewhere? There are offices around the country we can relocate to. This long-distance thing gets tiring after a while.”

 

He can’t say the idea is unappealing. He’d spent the last two decades moving around anyway, hopping from one odd job to another before eventually settling down on a Journalism degree and career – and some time and distance away from the Bee, the colleagues he’d come to love and hate sharing working space with, from Rumlow and Barnes?

 

“Yeah, OK.”

 

* * *

 

“Is that the last bag, Tony?”

 

“The trunk is empty, last I checked. Toss my jeans into the machine? I’m running out.”

 

It’s a bit after three, so if everything is still going accordingly, Rhodey must be on standby near the mailbox behind the apartment complex. He steals a look at Steve who’s stowing leftover foodstuff into his fridge. His heart pounds the moment he sees the silver box beside the armchair. Call it guilt, call it anxiety, he stares at it like it’s about to sprout wings and fly.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Tony practically pirouettes to meet Steve’s curious gaze. “What?”

 

“… Something on your mind?”

 

“Uh,” he’s thinking fast, “Pizza.”

 

“Pizza?”

 

“Pizza. Love me some pizza. I’m calling delivery. You want some? Pepperoni?”

 

“Sure. They don’t deliver to the doorstep, you know.”

 

Even better.

 

“I’ll collect it at the guardhouse then, no problem.”

 

The next forty-five minutes are painful to endure. He avoids Steve whenever he could, losing himself in backlogged e-mails from work, banging away on his laptop. Everything he does feel too loud, too awkward. He’s slamming on his spacebar too hard, he’s _breathing_ too fast –

 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Steve suddenly announces, and hallelujah!

 

“OK,” he replies innocuously, fingers still dancing across the keyboard. When he hears the shower running, he shoots Rhodey a miscall, and shouts, “Pizza’s here! I’m going down!”

 

He sprints down five flights of staircases, past the Eye of Sauron without so much as a curt nod and skids to a halt beside the mailbox.

 

“Rhodey?” Why is he alone here? “Rhodey, man, come on…” They’re supposed to rendezvous –

 

“Tony!”

 

Rhodey rounds the corner, a pizza box sitting on the silver box he’s cradling in his arms.

 

“Oh God, I thought you missed the time.”

 

“Oh, no. Not for this one. This is… take this,” and he shoves everything into Tony’s chest, relieved that it’s no longer his shit to care about. “And this,” he slips a pendrive into Tony’s pocket. “Wipe my fingerprints and all, I’m not implicated, OK? I didn’t sign up for this.”

 

“Wait, what? Rhodey –”

 

“You should leave this case alone, Tony. This is way above our paygrades.”

 

He would’ve stopped Rhodey in his tracks, demand explanations, but his hands are occupied, and Rhodey takes the chance to disappear around the corner again. An engine revs up and Rhodey’s car is soon speeding down the road. All he’s left with is the silver box, a pizza too cold to be useful, and the lingering memory of Rhodey’s watchful features.


	49. Chapter 49

Steve’s shower is still running. Not wanting to waste precious few seconds, he kicks his shoes off, replaces Steve’s original silver box by the coffee table, and tows the fake one into the kitchen.

 

“Shit, shit, shit.”

 

Now comes the difficult part. He wants to shred it, torch it, blast it into space. The kitchen isn’t an ideal hidey-hole, so short of chucking the box out of the window –

 

He kneels before the cabinet under the sink and prays. The shower stops. His _heart_ stops. He opens the cabinet and God, thank _God_ Steve did not clog the space up with junk. He quickly shoves the box under the pipework and allows himself three seconds – three stupid seconds to just _breathe_.

 

“Is the pizza here?” Steve calls out from his bedroom. Tony leaps to his feet, scrambling for the – where the hell is his goddam pizza?

 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah – I’m just… getting the plates.”

 

“It’s stone cold, Tony.” It must be, because said pizza box is mysteriously lain open on the coffee table – he must’ve left it there in his hurry to complete the switcheroo – and Steve has already picked a slice up, sniffing it. “You should get a refund.”

 

“Let me nuke it a couple of secs, it’ll be toasty right up.”

 

“Too hungry,” and promptly chows it down.

 

OK, he’s avoided certain death. That is good, that is –

 

“Hey, you dropped something.”

 

Steve’s pizza-free hand is raised above his head, a _pen drive_ in his grip. It’s like the ALS ice bucket challenge all over again as Tony makes his hesitant way to the sitting room. His back pocket feels oddly flat and weightless, as is his entire person.

 

His fingers brush against Steve’s, close around the cool plastic of the drive, and he pries it away.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Knees like lead, he backs off into the kitchen to gather the cutlery he promised to bring out earlier. It has never been this bad before… the guilt? The general feeling of queasiness and wrongness of it all, it has manifested so overtly, so _completely_ even the sight of Steve is, frankly, disturbing. He palms the small lump in his back pocket where the pen drive sits, and finds little consolation in it.

 

This is what he wants, isn’t it?

 

“Tony?”

 

He almost drops his forks. “Yeah?”

 

“Can you get me some ketchup? There’s a bottle beside the stove.”

 

And all that hurricane of feels and confusion just pisses him off – inexplicably – but know what’s worse? He can’t decide if it’s the monkey charade, or because he’s too much of a pussy to make up his mind and stick with it to the end of the line.

 

He passes the ketchup bottle wordlessly to Steve, and for what _ever_ reasons, pray tell – it’s like someone’s stuck a signal jammer in his brain – he straddles Steve’s laps and cups either sides of those angular jaws.

 

“Whoa, Tony, what’s –”

 

He smashes his lips against Steve’s. He’s hungry – famished. Needs to fill it with something. With Steve?

 

Steve’s hard in an instant. Having changed out of his thick jeans into those flimsy sweatpants that cling to anything, Steve’s dick rests firmly against Tony’s stomach, and it’s good, it’s all good.

 

“It’s like striking a lottery or something. Is this uh, compensation for the cold pizza?”

 

“Shut up, Steve.” Fingers grapple matted blonde hair, and he pulls, hard, exposing the fair expanse of Steve’s throat. He attacks, with teeth and tongue and everything he got, he uses. A startled moan escapes him when Steve strokes his cock through his pants – but he can’t have this.

 

“Let me,” he says instead, almost feverishly. He slides down to the floor, to kneel between Steve’s thighs and brings out the stiff mass. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He blows Steve like it’s what he’s been born to do, so earnestly, and he doesn’t care if there’s no sweet golden glitter to chase away the bitterness.

 

He shifts slightly and angles his cheek to the right. The strangled cry of pleasure Steve’s eliciting is his respite. He toils away, not letting an inch of flesh escape him, and he lowers Steve’s waistband to mid-thigh.

 

The red star tattoo, forever marked on Steve’s left hipbone – it’s still there.

 

Some things don’t ever go away.

 

Tony clamps a palm over the tattoo. He never had to do that before. It never bothered him.

 

It does now, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“Tony, I’m close…”

 

He labours, focuses on the warm, wet, musk swirling in his mouth. Saliva drips from the corner of his lips, down his chin, still he shoves Steve’s cock deeper into his throat. He doesn’t choke, and he sucks. All of Steve –

 

“Coming, Tony, don’t stop…”

 

Stop him. Punish him.

 

The full load of Steve’s semen on his tongue and the back of his throat doesn’t quite register. He looks away pointedly from the tattoo.

 

Forgive him.


	50. Chapter 50

They say, thinking about sinning isn’t actually sinning.

 

So, it’s the action that counts, then?

 

Tony has everything set on the dining table. His laptop idling on desktop, his pen drive plugged into the USB port, a cup of coffee – should’ve made something stronger. Steve has just left for work, but Tony is staying. It’s Tuesday, he should be hauling ass back to Sacramento.

 

“Let me settle our laundry first. I’ll leave by noon, so see you again Saturday?” he’d said.

 

Technically speaking, if he shuts this down, heeds Rhodey’s advice – however obscure it is – just leave it be, it’ll be fine. Right? The _only_ reason – he thinks – that this is chewing him on the inside is because of that padlock. Yes. It’s symbolic like that. Steve doesn’t want people digging around his stuff, and that translates somehow to _pick-the-lock_.

 

Tony chugs a quarter of his coffee in one go.

 

He double clicks on the E-drive, taps his finger impatiently on the left mouse button as all 500 MB of data loads – he needs a better laptop – and sighs when the wall of icons finally pops up. It looks like Rhodey’s good service stops here. Nothing is properly categorised for ease of perusal.

 

He scrolls all the way down, see if there’s anything that gives a first good impression. Finding none, he goes back to the top, and sort them by type. Almost all of them are images. Not unusual. Rhodey must’ve scanned the papers – page by page – which makes the sole memo in .txt stand out.

 

It doesn’t take him more than five seconds to read through it. There’s a short message at the top from Rhodey, saying he found these coordinates scattered as torn pieces of papers. Indeed they are – strings of numbers that according to Google Maps pinpoint locations of dilapidated shophouses or more often than not, middle of nowhere.

 

He spends the next hour going through what looks like random epitaphs. The writings appear blurry at some points – maybe it’s the lousy scanner, maybe it’s the wear and tear of the original pages over time – which means, it’s up to him to assign context to the… ravings.

 

Because that’s what it sounds like most of times.

 

The entries are dated. Goes way back to 2012.

 

_I tried so hard. It’s either him, or me. And I chose me. I said, the mission comes first. Is it?_

_Warn Rogers, there are people looking for him._

There are no details, not the slightest of subtexts. One thing though, the entries are spaced uniformly throughout. An entry a week – Tony checks his calendar – always on Wednesdays.

 

_There’s a massive shipment out from the dock next week. I don’t want to report this._

_After the last bust, tension finally blew over. Managed to pin it on Rumlow. If this plays out right, the org will eject him. I hope… I don’t have to be the one to do it._

_Saved by the skin of his teeth. Rumlow suspects. Cease communication for three weeks._

Which explains the long lapse between that entry and the next. All two months’ of it.

 

_Extraction. Please._

February 8, 2017 – two weeks after:

 

_Ten years, Ross. How much longer do I have to do this!_

 

That’s the last entry recorded. Or maybe there’s more, but Steve didn’t have it –

 

Tony double backs and reads the date again. It’s frighteningly close to the day Barnes jumped him in the alley, gifted him a call card, and warned him to keep Steve out of it. This can’t be simple coincidence. Is Steve in danger? That entry earlier about people looking for Steve, are they _still_ looking?

 

To begin with, why would Steve have these in possession?

 

He checks the drive again for anything recorded after February 8. Nada. Minus the wonderful aesthetics that border the handwritten sentences – smudged ink, scorched sections likely from the hot end of a cigarrete butt – there’s no proof _._ No allusions to whatever the organisation is doing, who Father is, names, addresses, _nothing._

 

Just a sick man’s diary written in desperate times.

 

Tony stares at a corner of his screen for two good seconds. A diary, is it? A diary that happens to bear the ATF insignia on its cover?

 

He leans forward until the edge of the table digs into his ribs. Not a diary. The front of a plain, brown folder, more like. He enlarges Page 1, the image that comes immediately after.

 

Barnes’ mugshot is front and centre on it. The youngish, clean-shaven man reminiscent of Steve’s bedside photograph.

 

_Armed Forces of the United States_

_James Buchanan Barnes, USA (Inactive)_

_Pay grade: OF3, Rank: SGT_

_Issue date: 1997MAY31_

_The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives_

_James Buchanan Barnes_

_Operative name:"Bucky" Barnes_

_Issue date: 2007SEP07_

_Designation: IOI (Active)_

Active?

 

_Case Officer in-charge:_

_Thaddeus E. Ross (07-17)_

_Steve G. Rogers (17-)_


	51. Chapter 51

There are five days between Monday and Saturday, and they whiz past like diarrhoea. Tony remembers sticking a note on Steve’s fridge before he left the dorm. Said he would turn over all evidences he’s compiled about SB909, Alchemax and Barnes’ –

 

No. What he has isn’t incriminating. What purpose does it serve, turning over his evidences to Steve and the ATF at this juncture? Nobody’s going to court for some mass spec reports, a couple grams of disintegrated drugs, and a boxful of vids and pictures of the violence forced on Steve in 2012.

 

God, what a fool he’s been. All these efforts, not as half as effective as it should’ve been, and turns out, all he’s been searching for is right there in front of him.

 

With Steve. And Barnes.

 

And classified.

 

Rhodey is right. He’s out of his league. Steve is right, too. Should’ve stopped before it spins out of control.

 

Steve called him that night after work. Must’ve read the sticky note on the fridge. It was close to ten at night, and Tony was all holed up in his cubicle at the Bee. He did not pick up the phone, did not return the miscall Tuesday morning.

 

So, Steve doesn’t call anymore the rest of the week.

 

Thank the Lord for bestowing him a boss so beloved that spending fifteen minutes with him in his office is enough to take his mind off everything else.

 

“I gave you all the time in the world to pursue your case! I let you work from home! I gave you so much leeway that if I could cash it out, I’d be rich enough to hire six of you! And this is all you have? That maybe, _maybe_ Alchemax is selling a non-FDA approved drug – what’s this crap, uh, _SB909_ – to some drug lord, and for what? Kicks and giggles? They don’t _do_ kicks and giggles, Stark! They do murdering on the side – remember those snuff photos you showed in one of those _memorable_ meetings? People in chains, whipped and raped – what, am I _not right_ to bring that up? That’s what they’re capable of! And I can’t afford to bulletproof this building, so if they come knockin’ on our front door, I’ll have the reception show them your cubicle!”

 

Steve is wrong on that front, at least. This story? It’s too hot to be published, too cold for the court.

 

That’s the end. They gave him an ultimatum. Either take the assignment on immunotherapy – how are they still harping on it and haven’t already given the case to another guy? – or leave the Bee.

 

On Saturday, Steve shows up earlier than usual. It’s nine in the morning, and Tony’s functioning on four hours’ sleep and a cup of coffee. Turns out, so is Steve.

 

“I can make you some sandwich,” Tony starts to get up. “You drove five hours without breakfast?”

 

As he piles ham on bread, he wonders if Steve rushes home for him, or for the case report on SB909.

 

He offers both at the same time – a hefty ham and cheese and a plain paper file with a sachet of green powder attached.

 

“Thanks,” Steve takes the latter and secures it in his bag. Tony sets the platter on the coffee table.

 

“I’ll promise you two things, Steve.” He takes the opposing armchair. “I’ll stop all communications with Barnes, and I’ll switch assignment. Immunotherapy. Cutting edge stuff. In return,” Steve’s fingers twitch in his lap, “Tell me about Barnes.”

 

“What about him?”

 

“You’re right. As always. Annoyingly so,” he takes a deep breath, and slowly lets it go with a small smile. “I can’t let go. I can’t get the imagery of – of you, what they did to you, out of my mind. I tried to take them on. Hell, what was I _thinking_? I don’t have the means, not like the state police, the FBI,” and his heart clenches, “the ATF?”

 

Steve meets Tony’s glare evenly. “What are you trying to say?”

 

“My house is clean, but for one last thing. I’ll apologise for working on Barnes for the wrong reasons – you’re right on that account, too. I wanted closure.” This is it. He lets it all out, be upfront with Steve, the only one this confession means the most to. “Whatever’s inside that file,” he breaks eye-contact to glance at Steve’s bag, “incidental findings in my pursuit of… getting to Barnes, and whoever else in cahoots in _torturing_ –”

 

“Tony, stop.”

 

He finds the serenity on Steve’s features upsetting.

 

“It’s fine,” Steve mutters. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

 

“… How do you know I was talking to Barnes?”

 

“I’ve my sources.”

 

“Do you have people follow me or something?”

 

Steve scoffs and leans back. “Seriously?”

 

Yeah, no. So, it _is_ Barnes then. They _are_ communicating. Why would they not? Tony forces down the inexplicable burn in his eyes and looks away pointedly. Steve’s the Case Officer for whatever mission Barnes is tasked with by the ATF. Steve’s in-charge of Barnes. His boss, his handler. God knows if Steve is Barnes’ only link to the surface. Brothers in arms, as they were in Kosovo, so they are again. How would he know? It’s classified. Why should he care? It’s not his place to question.

 

“Tony?”

 

“Yeah,” he takes another deep breath, clearing snot that’s built up in his nose. Steve’s glare immediately softens. “I’m not asking as a journalist. I’m asking as me, for me. He hurt you. He still is.”

 

“I told you, it’s not _anybody’s_ fault –”

 

“Who is he, really? To you. That’s all I want to know.”

 

Tony sees the demons wrestling in Steve’s mind and conscience. Belatedly Tony realises, it’s entirely OK if Steve doesn’t want to share. Tony’s made his peace. It’s not an answer from Steve that he’s seeking.  

 

“He is…” Yet Steve begins slowly. When he looks up at Tony again, he says, his voice clear as day, “No. _Sergeant James Barnes_ was my friend, my brother, and if I’d to trade my life for his, I would, as he would for me. I told you before. The war, it changed people. _He changed_.” The minutest quiver razes Steve’s bottom lip. “Doesn’t matter who he is now. It won’t change what we had between us twenty years ago. There is good in him. I believe that.”

 

And something chimes audaciously from the coffee table, where Tony has set his cell phone on. It’s not a fancy ring tone that he’s carefully assigned to Steve, Rhodey or Pepper –

 

An unknown number.

 

He doesn’t pick it up, so the call is cut. Then, it chimes again.

 

“Hello?”

 

Steve averts his attention to the TV set instead. How Tony wishes he could magic Steve away completely from the vicinity instead.

 

“Stark? Bucky’s in trouble.” It’s Rumlow’s voice, scratchy with panic. “Turf fight. He’s bleeding like a pig, so hurry your ass to the coffee house.”

 

He walks to the window. “Then, call an ambulance.” Something rustles behind him. Steve’s hovering – his attention caught. “Or send him to emergency yourself.”

 

“We’re on a watch list. All of us. You’re squeaky clean. Just hurry.”

 

What. The hell.


	52. Chapter 52

“I have to go.”

 

As he strides to the door – fetching his keys from the wall – he hazards how this can go wrong in ten thousand ways. He’s _this close_ to asking Steve to look for his body in the ditch if he doesn’t make it back for dinner.

 

“What ambulance? What’s going on?”

 

“Something urgent. I promise I’ll be back in a jiffy –”

 

“Tony, please.” Steve grabs his elbow and forcibly spins him around. “What’s going on?”

 

Maybe he _should_ ask Steve to look for his body in the ditch. Or…

 

“It’s Barnes.” Tony stuffs his pockets with his car keys, Steve’s house keys, his cell phone –

 

“Tony, no.”

 

“He’s injured, or something, I don’t know. They’re not exactly generous with details.”

 

“You’re not going.”

 

Tony wrenches the door open. “Trap or not, it’s…” It’s really glaring on the outside. Summer heat is scorching. “If it’s true that he needs help, and if I could’ve done something but I didn’t, it’s on me, Steve.”

 

Barnes’ is Steve’s charge, isn’t he? His responsibility? Call for back up then. Make sure Barnes make it out alive. Sic the SPD on the coffee house, whatever.

 

Tony’s counting on it.

 

Sparing one last uncertain look at Steve, he steps out of the house and closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

“Where are you? Same place?”

 

“… Yeah.” Rumlow’s voice is still pitched unnaturally high. Tony steps harder on the accelerator pedal. “Use the backdoor. We’re lying low, we don’t need your car coming through the front to make a statement.”

 

“Got it. Be there in fifteen.”

 

He dials Barnes’ number next and waits. The call goes unanswered – he tries two more times – and grips his steering wheel impatiently. This whole evac mission won’t take long, he tells himself. He swears he won’t even wind down the window, won’t unlock his car. If they need a face or a name to call the ambulance on their behalf, fine, he can do that from the comfort of his driver’s seat. If they want him to deliver Barnes to emergency, fine, they can stash the body in his backseat and then charge Rumlow for cleaning services afterward.

 

 _Just don’t_ _leave the car._

 

He never knew the coffeehouse comes with a backdoor, but what evil lair doesn’t? He drives past the main entrance and takes the first right turn, and finds a gate half-opened behind some municipal bins. He stalls there, unsure if this is the right place to be when someone pushes the gate wider and beckons him to drive in.

 

Damn if he does, damn if he doesn’t.

 

And God, when Rumlow said “turf fight”, he’d imagined old school machete and brass knuckles and crass intimidations – nothing serious, just a bunch of alpha males clawing at each other’s throats trying to prove something. This one? This one is a _drive-by_. Tony steps on his brakes so hard he jolts forward in his seat. The high walls built on the compound’s perimeter are riddled with high calibre bullets – debris everywhere –

 

“Stark!”

 

Two bloody hands are pounding on the passenger’s side of the window. Tony jumps, one hand clinching his gearstick.

 

“Stark! What took you so – God, just get out!”

 

“What – I don’t –”

 

“Get out!”

 

He doesn’t need to wind down the windows to hear Rumlow screeching from the outside. He unlocks his door and exits his car, as Rumlow rounds the hood.

 

“Oh my God,” the stench of blood hooking his nostrils – it’s an abattoir he just walked into. “You’re… are you –”

 

The front of Rumlow’s shirt is soaked in blood. He grabs Tony brashly by his shoulders and steers him towards the building. “Not mine. Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time.”

 

What _had_ happened –

 

“Wasted _so much time_ , Stark.”

 

The second the door slams behind him, his instincts take over. Rumlow’s grip on his shoulder tighten – painfully so – and Tony uses his legs, still free and desperate to make contact. His improvised roundhouse kick connects with something hard – someone’s chest he hopes, and he hears multiple yelps. Hands grappling at his hair, pulling, and his scalp burns. Someone tearing at his shirt, so many people –

 

He screams when a dull thud flare from his right shin. He crumples to the ground, hugging his leg to his chest. Someone’s hauling him up by his collar, choking him as the thin stretch of fabric dig into his throat.

 

“Stop messin’ around, Stark. Another squeak from you and I’ll break something else.”

 

No, not broken – Tony blinks back black dots from his vision. There will be one hell of a bruise later, and he swears he’s going to nail the asshole who batted his shin when he wasn’t looking.

 

“Rumlow, you’ll wanna see this.”

 

Some mook Tony doesn’t recognise passes a tablet to Rumlow, and the light from the screen casts an unhealthy sheen over his blood-streaked face. Tony groans lightly and turns to ease the weight off his arm. _Whose_ blood is it anyway, and there’s a lot of it – on the ground outside the compound, on Rumlow, hell, he looks like he’d bathed in it before the meet-and-greet.

 

Where’s Barnes?

 

“Huh. What d’you know. Hey, Stark,” Rumlow crouches to bring himself to Tony’s eye level. “Watch.”

 

It takes every fibre of his person to remain blasé over what’s transpiring onscreen. The time print in the corner tells him this is happening live.

 

He recognises the car.

 

“Do you know him?” Rumlow taps on the screen, leaving a bloody fingerprint in its wake. “Haven’t seen him in a while myself. Who’s he to you?”

 

Low res CCTV recording be damned. He’d recognise Steve anywhere.

 

“Don’t know him,” he replies smoothly. A lump build in his throat when he sees five other men surround Steve, who’s since raised both his arms.

 

“Really?” Rumlow turns the tablet to himself again. “’Cause the good Lieutenant said he’s looking for Tony Stark. That you, ain’t it?” He whistles, “My, look at him now. He was a _wreck_ the last time Masaryk had a go at him.”

 

Don’t. Tony squeezes his eyes and rests his forehead on the cement floor. Don’t lose it, now’s not the time, now when Steve’s outside, cornered –

 

“So, you don’t know Rogers? Fine. _I’ve_ business to settle with you. Let’s go.”  


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This will be a bumpy ride for the next 10 chapters or so, so trigger warning for non-con sexual acts and BDSM power play without safewords and permissions. Unfortunately, some of these acts are plot points, and revealing anything more will spoil the story's resolution. Wherever necessary, I'll put a sanitised summary in the author's note at the end of a chapter :) Thank you!

Tony lets himself be led away upstairs. He hears scuffling just outside of the door, from the compound – some shouting, nothing serious, nothing _lethal_. No guns, _please_ no guns – did Steve notice the kind of damage the guns did to the walls? This is real, this isn’t movie magic –

 

A fist hits him squarely in his stomach. He doubles over, trips over his ankles and smooches the dusty cement floor again. Good God, he’s _walking,_ isn’t he?

 

“Hey, don’t overdo it.”

 

“What? Big boy can’t take some roughhousing?”

 

“Boss is _not_ gonna be happy –”

 

“Really? Look at his face again.” Tony himself feels obliged to look up at Rumlow’s face, but he stays down, one arm cradling his middle, the other his leg. “He hasn’t looked livelier since Bucky took over as number two.”

 

A boot nudges him none too gently in his tailbone, “Get up.”

 

He forces himself up and limps as fast as he can towards a motherfucking flight of stairs. Leaning heavily into the railing, he puts one foot forward, and climbs, another food forward, and climbs – the tedious journey punctuated with more shoves and unsavoury threats.

 

“Shit… how do we land ourselves babysitting him?”

 

“Why, somewhere you rather be?”

 

Then, they _laugh_. Tony ignores them. He refuses to let this rattle him –

 

“Man, I’ll be lyin’ if I say I’m not excited about this Rogers fella.”

 

Tony swallows thickly, his knuckles as white as sheet as they close over the railing.

 

“After what they did to him, I thought he was done for. One way or another.”

 

“Yeah? What did they do?”

 

“You _don’t know_? People don’t talk about it anymore, sure, but nobody forgets. Where you been, man?”

 

“Never heard about it, that’s all I’m saying. I joined last year.”

 

“Right, this was five years ago. Rumlow would’ve put him through the ‘exit ritual’, y’know what I mean? If it weren’t for Bucky, we’d be mopping his entrails until today. Frankly I don’t get what’s up with Rumlow’s crusade against the cops. Not worth the trouble. Anyway, if it was up to me, I’d take the ritual.”

 

“So, you’re gonna be an asshole and _not_ tell me what happened?”

 

“… If you’re lucky, you can watch. Rogers is just out there, isn’t he? I think Rumlow’s keeping him in one of the garages.”

 

Oh God. Tony freezes in his ascend, half-bent over the railing. There’s just two of these chatty idiots watching him. They’re at the top of the staircase. Rumlow’s not in sight, as far as he can tell. Not anyone else for the matter. Just two kicks to send them flailing off the stairs. Break a neck or two, whatever, then he can get to Steve –

 

“Hey, who told you stop walking?”

 

Instead of another stream of death threats, a large hand smacks him over his right butt. Once, twice, and then shamelessly groping him through his jeans. Tony holds on to the railing, not trusting his own legs to keep him upright.

 

“Hey,” the other hisses. “What are you doing, man?”

 

“Warming up,” the reply comes distractedly, as the hand creeps to the front of Tony’s pants.

 

“Really? _Now_?” And the hand eases off his crotch. Tony would’ve fallen off the steps anyway if it weren’t for someone holding him up by his biceps. “Get a faggot elsewhere. If something happens to this one on our watch, we’ll be experiencing the exit ritual first hand.”

 

They march him into a dingy office room without fanfare. Located on the mezzanine, it has a see-through glass panel overlooking the ground. Tony imagines the whole place to a warehouse, or a loading bay for trucks to unload supplies for the coffee house. The layout is synonymous to N & N’s – simplistic on the outside, sprawling on the inside. He won’t be surprised if he could open-sesame a super-secret dungeon somewhere.

 

“Sit.”

 

He sinks into a rusty foldable chair, and does not resist when they bind his wrists behind him, his legs to the chair with cable ties. More light shines into the dank space – Tony sees it through the glass panel, so someone must’ve opened the door again. His two guards must’ve sensed the same thing, and since _their_ limbs are not tethered to some rusty chair, they go and stand by the window, and watch. It’s infuriating, _knowing_ – it’s his manly instincts, bite him – that it’s Steve that they’re sending their love to.

 

“Dude, what the fuck? Put that away!”

 

Tony lifts his chin, and tastes bile on tongue at the stroking motion the man on the right is making with his hand. Tony can’t see anything useful – both men standing with their backs against him – but he’s obviously gripping something waist level, eyes glued to what’s happening out there.

 

“Wow, you’re even more damaged than I thought, man. No offense.”

 

A mere grunt is all Tony hears. And that’s enough.

 

“They’re not even doing anything to him – OK, would you stop? Great, _thank you_.”

 

“He looks just the same after all these years. The things I’d do to him. Squash that fuckin’ _life_ from his eyes. Turns me on all the time,” the voice speaks huskier than before. “They should’ve been distributing invitation cards for the orgy fest by now. Unless… ah, damn.”

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“He’s branded. _Still_ branded.”


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some roughing up and swear words meant to degrade homosexuals. You can skip the story telling to get to the plot point at the end of the chapter :)

A crash from the back has Tony jump in chair, the cable ties cutting into his flesh.

 

“You two, get me the hammer and the Yellow Pages.”

 

Trust Rumlow to make _the_ entrance, and then bark orders at other human beings like they’re not. Something drags along the floor – like fingernails on a chalkboard – and stops when Rumlow appears in front of him to park an equally rusty chair between them.

 

He drops unceremoniously into it, their knees almost touching. Tony looks at him impassively, unblinkingly –

 

He sees stars. A sharp ache suddenly grows in the back of his ear. Rumlow strikes his face again, and he tastes copper where his teeth scratch against his cheeks.

 

“Thought I’d set the mood of our meeting.”

 

Tony exhales slowly, his eyes now training the dusty corner of the office. Clump of hair, cigarette butts, and what he believes a faint smell of urine –

 

The door opens again, and more feet shuffle in. Nobody speaks, nobody does anything that’s visible to him, but suddenly, a hefty phone book is slapped against his stomach, his arms wrestled back against the chair and Rumlow just –

 

He counts three blows. Three strong blows that he’s forced to tank in the worst posture. He would’ve slipped off the chair if it weren’t for the cable ties.

 

“You see this?” Rumlow waves a cube – black, covered in wire mesh – and Tony’s eyes widen. “This mic is connected to the speakers out there,” and Rumlow twists around in his own chair to point at the glass panel. “We use this to communicate with the ground workers during unloading, but hey, works the same. Wanna say hello to Rogers?”

 

“… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Really?”

 

He has to keep up the charade. Fuck what Steve told them before, if he maintains that he doesn’t know Steve, they might let him walk away.

 

Rumlow laughs tersely.

 

Yeah, no – what was he thinking. Something tells him he’s worth nothing as a bargaining chip. At this rate, his heart might just give out anticipating whatever horrors he thinks Rumlow will unleash on them both.

 

Rumlow drags the hammer along his torso, from his stomach southward, and stops right above his crotch.

 

“This one gonna hurt, Stark.” Oh, shit. Shit, _shit_ – “And you’re gonna scream for me like you did just now, and Rogers gonna be listening to us, wondering what the fuck is going on here.” He dangles the mic before Tony, a green LED shining brightly beside Rumlow’s thumb.

 

“What do you want from me?”

 

Rumlow’s eyes track to the left a bit – Tony would’ve followed his eyeline too, see what catches his fancy despite the _crisis at hand,_ when Rumlow _finally_ lifts the hammer and places it on a desk.

 

“Good question. Answer me this, have you been chatting with the cops?”

 

“... I – _what_?”

 

“You see, our Father gave us an order. The first order in months. The last one we had since. He told us to _lie low_. And that means no contact with suppliers or customers, or anyone topside. That includes you. Bucky wouldn’t listen, of course, smitten by you as he did with that whore downstairs.”

 

Tony would _not_ let that show – how much he wanted to knock out Rumlow’s _teeth_ –

 

“Of course, that doesn’t really mean a complete shutdown – I mean, if our friends think us dead, how are we gonna bounce back when it’s back to business, you understand? So, when Bucky decides to keep you, we thought, sure, you’re supposed to be our way into the upper-class customer base anyway.

 

“I told him, I told Father and everyone else who would listen, that we should’ve gone with somebody we’ve been working with long term. Somebody we trust. And that ain’t you, Stark. You know what I think you are?” Rumlow snarls, his canine so visible between his thin lips. “A snitch. Since you arrive, fifty percent of our operations were shut down prematurely. Two raids, millions of dollars just –” he snaps his fingers. “I can connect the dots, Stark.”

 

“I _don’t know_ what you’re talking about – I haven’t met Barnes –”

 

The hammer hits him in the stomach the hardest yet. The phone book doesn’t seem to help much. He can’t breathe –

 

“No more games, Stark! If I had to gut you –”

 

“I swear,” he grits out, his mouth gone dry, “I don’t know… not a snitch.”

 

What does Rumlow think he can achieve with this anyway? Tony knows he’s fucked either way, he has nothing to prove his relationship with Barnes, and he’s pretty damn sure Rumlow hasn’t anything solid on him either.

 

But he’s the guy with the tools, so.

 

“I’m with Barnes for...” God, this tastes like poop on his tongue. “Pleasure. Just personal stuff, I swear.”

 

“Oh? So… do you guys fuck each other often?”

 

“… Fuck you, Rumlow.”

 

“Oh no, not me. Clearly you enjoy that part of the relationship. Others bailed when they had the chance, but not Tony Stark, and you’re _here_ in my chair. You should’ve run.” He brings the microphone to his chin. “You heard that, Rogers? You say you’re here for Stark, when he’s been fucking Bucky behind your back all along. Or… maybe I got this all figured out. Maybe you snitched on us to the good Lieutenant. You think lying about not knowing Rogers will save him?”

 

Christ, what the –

 

“Is that it, Rogers? The faster we reach a conclusion, the faster we get to go home or something. What is it with you faggots anyway? You like screwing each other much? I mean, Bucky and you, then you and Stark, and then Bucky _and Stark_ – Jesus, it’s like you’re gunning for all permutations possible. Would you mind if I help myself to some, then?”

 

“Keep your hands _off me ­_ –”

 

With a flick of the switch, the mic goes dead, and –

 

Tony spits saliva and blood to the ground. That punch, didn’t see it coming, but he’d take that to whatever he thought was.

 

“Pathetic.”

 

“Boss, Bucky is on his way. We should go.”

 

“No. Something’s not right here, I know it. And I’m done taking shit from Barnes. Untie him. Bring him down to Rogers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot point: 1) Rumlow believes that Bucky (either intentionally or not) talks to Tony about the organisation, 2) Tony refuses to acknowledge that he knows Steve, hoping that Rumlow will lose interest in Steve 3) though Steve straight up admits that he's at the warehouse to bring Tony home, 4) Rumlow thinks that Tony actually relays information about the organisation to the cops via Steve. 
> 
> In short, to Rumlow, Tony is a two-timer (with Bucky and Steve) and a snitch.


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor violence. Plot points are summarised below :)

Tony descends the steps in half the time he took to ascend them. He found Steve – clad in a white cotton T and jeans, just the way he was when Tony left him in the sitting room – handcuffed to the drainpipes along the far wall. He was half-kneeling, half-sitting, and the whole space feels dank.

 

Tony trips over his ankles again and falls to his knees. With both arms still tied behind his back, finding balance is difficult, but where he is, crouching mere ten yards away from Steve, he stills. He almost loses it, seconds away from calling out to Steve, but he bites back the syllable in time. Steve is _beyond_ wet. Water drips from his hair, himself soaked to the bones. He might as well not be wearing anything, not with everything sticking to him like a second skin.

 

Their eyes lock onto each other. Tony silently begs for Steve to _get it_ – delve into his thoughts, understand what he’s trying to do. He shakes his head ever so slightly.

 

Please.

 

“Tony?” Steve whispers.

 

No, don’t say it, don’t –

 

“Ice buckets!”

 

Tony straightens up. What ice bucket –

 

Steve cries harshly as a red pail is emptied over his head. Ice cubes fall into his laps, water sliding off his skin like wax. There’s not an inch of dry fabric left to take in more. The tremors attack Steve so violently Tony feels himself shaking at the sight –

 

“Stop,” he says, eyes still glued to Steve. “Stop – no, don’t. What are you –”

 

The second bucket is blue. Some smaller ice chips sneak under Steve’s shirt, surrounded by a small mound of them. He doesn’t let out the slightest squeak.

 

“What the _fuck,_ Rumlow!”

 

“Nothin’. Just dicking with the Lieutenant a bit.”

 

“What do you want from me, huh?” Tony doesn’t care if he’s shouting himself hoarse, or if his words are spat so violently they bounce off the walls. “I told you the _truth!_ I don’t – don’t know,” he looks at Steve again, blue eyes clouded with… _everything._ What does Steve want him to do?

 

“I told you, I don’t know _anything_ about… about…” What should he say? “Bucky doesn’t tell me shit about what he does. I don’t even understand half the things you say _._ I don’t – I don’t deal with cops – I’m a reporter, God dammit. I don’t discriminate between sides of the law.”

 

“Damn. You’ll make for good PR, Stark.”

 

“Blow me.” Shit. He bites his tongue, cursing himself. “I’m only interested in…” he swallows again, and looks pointedly at Steve. “Only interested in Bucky.” If only Steve _understands_.

 

Rumlow doesn’t move or speak for a while. All the time Tony’s hung out with the boys, he never thought the bunch can ever stay still and shut up. All he hears is the dripping of ice water from Steve’s body to the cement ground under him, and his heavy breathing as cold embrace him.

 

Here’s to hoping against hope that Rumlow would let Steve go.

 

“Well, if I have to beat the truth out of one of you…”

 

Tony’s back and neck prickle with rising heat and panic. There’s no way he’s going to win this, _no way._

 

Rumlow crooks his finger, and something long and heavy drags against the floor.

 

“Turn it on!”

 

Rumlow himself takes charge of what looks like an industrial grade garden hose, and when water bursts out of the opening, he staggers somewhat, the momentum throwing him off balance. He starts hosing down _Steve_ , Steve who’s doing his best to shield his face from the blast. His arms locked to his sides, useless – he’s no choice but to endure it. He sucks in precious air when Rumlow misses his shot, and their dance goes on until Steve’s fists go from clenched to slack.

 

“Turn it off.”

 

“Boss, incoming.” Tony strains to eavesdrop, but how can he when all he hears, _cares_ to hear is Steve spluttering spit and air, half-drowning?

 

“Where’s he?”

 

“Just drove through the gate. Front one.”

 

“… Did he come alone?”

 

“I don’t think so.” The voice hesitates. “We should clean this up. I don’t think Bucky would –”

 

“To hell with what he thinks,” Rumlow snarls. “There’s a fucking snitch among us and I _know_ –”

 

“That’s not the _point_! The point is… is, Rogers is –”

 

“Ah, yes. _That._ You think I give a rat’s ass about some tattoo –”

 

Light pours in so suddenly that everybody flinches. Multiple doors and gates slam open, and shadows fill up the spots when an army of twelve close rank with Rumlow and his men.

 

“Bucky,” Rumlow grits out. Tony waits for the other shoe to drop – gang fights, people shivving people, just inane violence that he wants absolutely no part of.

 

“Rumlow,” Bucky acknowledges with the merest scowl. He surveys the warehouse slowly, as if counting heads at their jolly get-together. “There I was, waiting with the boys for a meeting _you_ called for two hours ago.”

 

“Yeah, cancelled. Looks like you missed the memo. I’ll make sure to pass it on _personally_ next time.”

 

Slowly, Bucky turns to Tony, who’s still kneeling on the ground doing his best to remain invisible behind Rumlow. If it takes Bucky and his nasties to placate Rumlow’s craving for blood, so be it. His eyes latch onto Steve, still huddled in his corner, and Bucky follows.

 

Steve’s shaking so bad his handcuffs are constantly jiggling against the piping.

 

Bucky strides over, closing the distance between himself and Steve one pace at a time. His shoulders are squared, his jaws set.

 

He crouches.

 

“Rogers,” Bucky drawls, a hand reaching up to brush stray clump of hair away from Steve’s forehead. “Long time, no see. You look well.”

 

Steve doesn’t reply. So, Barnes slip a hand to Steve’s waist, and tugs at drenched hem of the T-shirt up. “As far as I know, we don’t have blind people in the family. No offense to those who are, but…” He runs a knuckle almost lovingly across the five-pointed star tattoo above Steve’s hipbone, stark red against pale flesh. “What did I say about not touching my stuff?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot points: Tony maintains his initial claim that he doesn't know Steve. Rumlow tries to persuade either of them to tell the truth. Bucky arrives with his men, saying that he finds it weird that nobody shows up for a meeting that Rumlow calls himself two hours ago. Bucky greets Steve, and reveals Steve's red star tattoo to everyone present. He reminds them "not to touch his stuff".


	56. Chapter 56

And ambient temperature falls a couple of degrees.

 

Bucky looks over his shoulder, icily glaring at one man after another, purposely skipping over Tony as if he never existed in the first place. One by one the men look away shiftily, unable to bear the weight of Bucky’s accusing glower.

 

Rumlow obviously doesn’t get intimidated by mere eyeballs. “It’s for the family, Bucky.”

 

“You did this?”

 

“There’s a snitch among us, right here in this room –”

 

“What’s that got to do with Stark and Rogers?”

 

Rumlow _grins,_ that fucking loon. “You’ve more brain cells than the rest of ‘em put together, Bucky. Surely you know what I’m getting at?”

 

“… Let me tell you what I think.” Barnes draws his Glock from his belt, and a rustle of movement erupts from the ring of men. Even Rumlow is eyeing it warily. “Relax,” he coos, holding the handle gingerly between his thumb and index finger. “Not loaded. This is what you’re at, Rumlow. Like this gun. I think it’s a bluff. All you have is words. You think you can force the truth out of people with torture? That kind of thing don’t fly in real world, my friend. They’re just gonna say whatever you want to hear so you’d stop. SERE was right on that front.” Bucky flips the Glock over and pries the magazine floorplate. The magazine slips from his palm, and hits the floor hard.

 

Fifteen bullets scatter on the floor.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ –”

 

Two dozens guns pop up in a split second, pointing at all directions. Barnes has both his arms raised placatingly. “Oops,” he shrugs, “Thought it was empty.”

 

“Is that a threat, Bucky?”

 

“… A friendly reminder.”

 

And Steve starts to hack. His face grows paler by the second, his posture lax, save for his chest that’s working agonisingly hard to draw breath. Tony can’t think, can’t speak – all he knows is Steve needs help, but he can’t ask it.

 

“Inhalers –”

 

Why? What for? What _are_ them anyway –

 

“– don’t you have one? Give me!”

 

Barnes snatches something from the hands of a timid-looking man – _boy_? – who doesn’t look like he wants to stay a second longer in the warehouse. Barnes shoves the mouthpiece between Steve’s chattering teeth, one hand bracing him at the back of his neck.

 

“Deep breath,” Barnes instructs. And the minutes roll by, Barnes crouching before Steve, attending to him, coaching him on how to use an asthma inhaler properly.

 

Tony’s jaws are flush on the floor.

 

So are two dozen other.

 

“Right,” Rumlow chuckles. “Almost forgot you two were best bud back in those days. Took care of Rogers much, Buck? They told me you lost your heart in the War.”

 

“… Habits die hard.”

 

He tosses the inhaler back at its respectful owner. “Keys.”

 

Rumlow fishes one from his back pocket and hurls it to Barnes, who proceeds to make quick work of Steve’s handcuffs. “You’re a fool to bait a cop into our midst, Rumlow.”

 

“Am I? The _reason_ we’re cowering in a goddam coffeehouse on our fuckin’ bellies is because of this snitch –”

 

“Who may not even be real! You got no proof!” With the grace of a consummate bipolar, that is, without a hint of care he just displayed not a minute ago, Barnes hauls Steve up to his feet and shoves him into a couple of thugs standing closest to them. “Clean him up. If he dies on your watch, I’ll make it a mass grave of three bodies, you understand?”

 

“Where do we keep him afterward?”

 

“Put him on the chair.”

 

“… The usual setup, then?”

 

“Yes.”

 

They nod and disappear behind a nondescript door to their left. Steve can hardly walk, shuffling along mostly as his chaperones bear much of his weight. Before Tony could even decide on what he should do or say next, Barnes grips him around his armpit and pulls him up to his feet.

 

“You’re coming with me.”

 

“What is this, Bucky? Gone _soft_? You can’t deny the fact that there’s someone dirty in our house. Either you know something I don’t, _or_.”

 

Barnes’ fingers curl around his biceps painfully. “ _Or_ what?”

 

“… You’ve been valuable to the family, Buck. But your loyalty is questionable.”

 

“… Right. Says the one who brought in a cop and a fucking reporter on a hunch. This is me saving your ass, Rumlow, how about that change of perspective, huh? You kill a cop, we’re done for. You kill this idiot,” Tony’s stomach does a little flip, “Fine. But I _guarantee_ you, it won’t stop with him. You’ll think up another name to play the role of your imaginary snitch. There’ll be a body trail because I _know_ you! How about you tell Father your clever theories so we could all go topside again?”

 

Rumlow lips grow thinner.

 

“Nothin’? Thought so.”

 

Then, he jerks Tony towards the staircase again.


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for very mild touching.

Barnes’ babysitting skills are first-rate, because unlike the previous goofs, he never let go of Tony as he marches him up the stairs. Call it extra precautionary detail, whatever – Tony welcomes the crutch. He feels his adrenaline crashing, like he’s looking through a broken VR glasses. Disjointed. Wavering. This’ll be the death of him. It’s not like there’s a good margin between _here_ and a green zone, and he still needs to get to Steve, wherever he is. And he _can’t_ do this. Get themselves out. Get somewhere safe. The only thing grounding him to the present is Barnes moving him along the railing, one step at a time.

 

“Just shut up when we’re in there,” he hears Barnes’ whisper, just when his eyes decide to slip to a close. Barnes jostle him by the shoulder. “Look alive. They’ve eyes and ears on us.”

 

Before he knows it, the arduous cross-continent track is over and he’s back in the rusty chair, slumped and halfway to passing out.

 

“… What… did you to him?”

 

Barnes is upending drawers and cabinets, obviously searching for something, and whatever it is, he isn’t finding it, and it’s doing shit for his temper already fraying at ends.

 

Tony looks over to the table and notes the green LED on the mic. There are two cameras mounted on the walls, both with blinking red LEDs on the front. Barnes was right, even here they aren’t truly alone.

 

His heart almost gives out when Barnes slams a metal toolbox on the office desk.

 

“… Asthma.”

 

Tony steels himself for a Hail Mary. If Barnes pulls out another hammer, or pliers, or whatever boring handyman tool that these psychos repurpose to suit their more exciting agendas, he _will_ grab one of those himself and – do it, oh God –

 

But it’s just rolls and rolls of gauzes, antiseptic and whatever it is that makes hospitals smell sterile.

 

“Steve used to have asthma. Winter and spring gave him the most trouble. Take your shirt off.”

 

Slowly, Tony grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls, and God it took so goddam long to strip himself topless because his fingers are quaking at Richter 9.5.

 

“Let me.” Head still trapped behind sweaty cotton fabric, he hears Barnes offering, cool and toneless. And soon enough, his collar comes off free. Barnes leans into him to work on the sleeves that somehow got caught around his elbows. So close… he hears measured breathing ghosting the nape of his neck, the outer shell of his ear, and Tony hedges his bet, “ATF IOI James Barnes. Ex-case officer, Thaddeus Ross.”

 

Barnes freezes so completely.

 

Gotcha.

 

Tony pushes, “I know you work for Steve now.”

 

“Moan.”

 

“… What?”

 

Teeth grazes his earlobe, and hands, cold and clammy creep up his chest. Tony squirms and leans deeper into his seat – what the _fuck?_ – and sees the hammer that Rumlow so carelessly left within his reach.

 

Barnes stills him by his elbows, and kisses him.

 

Not again –

 

“You’ve outlived your usefulness, Stark. Play the part.” Tony almost misses the words, before Barnes seals his lips once more over his. It’s fucking frigid in the office, and he’s naked waist up. His hair and nipples stand up shivering – some new form of torture mayhap –

 

Barnes nibbles along his throat, fingers dipping into those sharp collarbones. “Touch yourself.”

 

He obeys, one hand closes clinically over his crotch. The cameras don’t have to know how non-rigid he is, and what is that again that Barnes want him to do? Play the part?

 

He fondles himself through his pants, and responds to Barnes’ touches. A couple of fake groans and shudders as Barnes rocks his hips against his flank, and his own cock stirs at the pressure.

 

He wishes Rumlow would hose him down, too.

 

“I won’t tell,” he sucks in air, and buries his mouth in Barnes’ shoulder. “I won’t tell, if you let Steve and I go.”

 

A hand clasps painfully tight in his hair and wrenches downward, exposing more of his throat to the emptiness of the room. “That’s really not up to you.”

 

And Barnes clamp down on his neck, teeth sinking into his flesh. Tony flinches, God, what sort of show are they putting up for Rumlow?

 

“You’ve done enough,” warm tongue laps over where Barnes has bitten down, “Trust Steve.”

 

Tony lets out a shuddering breath.

 

“Follow his lead. He’s up to something.”

 

Just like that, he’s released. Barnes doesn’t even look at him anymore, doesn’t acknowledge anything that’s transpired between them five minutes ago. He attends to the blooming mess of red and purple over Tony’s front like a doc would to anyone delivered to his gurney.

 

There’s a plan, right? There’s a plan – there’s a chance’s chance they’re getting out of here OK.

 

His torso now slathered in analgesia and crudely fixed bandages, Tony waits.

 

The ball is in their court. What’s Barnes’ next move?

 

What’s Steve’s?

 

“Can you walk?” Barnes asks suddenly, almost dispassionately, but his tattooed arm is already circling Tony’s waist, hoisting him up.

 

“Yeah. Where are we going?”

 

He opens the door, and they proceed down the many steps in no hurry. “Let’s see how Rogers’ holding up. It’s about time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony tells Bucky that he knows of Bucky's real identity as an ATF IOI working undercover for Steve. He tries to bargain for his and Steve's safe passage out, or he would expose Bucky's secret to Rumlow/organisation. Bucky asks him to trust Steve, and follow his lead. He believes Steve is up to something.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual assault. No chapter summary at the end. The nuances of their actions may hint at something more, but I can't summarise that without... you know, triggering.

The smell alone.

 

Tony forces saliva and bile down when Barnes opens that plain door Steve went through. It’s another small office room, nothing much to write home about. An office desk, grimy floor, lousy ventilation, and Steve.

 

“You two,” Barnes motion at the duo flanking Steve, supposedly standing guard, “Get out. I’ll let this one slide.”

 

Let what slide?

 

One of them mutters an abashed, “Sorry” as they shuffle past Tony. Pretty sure it wasn’t directed at him, pretty sure Barnes doesn’t care much, either.

 

And then, he sees it.

 

Dried up semen smearing the front of Steve’s chest, and the insides of his thighs. Nothing Steve can do about, not when he’s bound to his chair so savagely, forearms and ankles tethered to his seat by bold PVC straps and iron-wrought manacles. This room, too, like the one above has two cameras mounted on opposite walls. No blind spots.

 

Nowhere to hide.

 

“He won’t know we’re here,” Barnes declares loudly enough that it echoes.

 

No, Steve _does_. He’s stilled a bit since they entered, perhaps aware of the slight disturbance in the way the air flows? Gut feelings? Maybe he can see a sliver of something through the blindfold slapped over his eyes and the expanse of his forehead. And it’s not just his sight that they’ve stolen. His ears are stuffed with something bright orange. His mouth jammed hideously apart with a ball gag, drool cascading down his chin from the corner of his lips. He’s stripped bare, and Tony looks immediately away.

 

Steve’s rock hard, his cock an audacious bulge in his lap.

 

Tony keeps his staunch vigil by the door. The manacles holding Steve in place chinks as he fidgets, both arms drawn behind his back. The first few sounds that escape his gagged mouth remind Tony of his grandfather on his deathbed. His death rattle, they call it. Like a window groaning in the thunderstorm, broken but still holding on. He’s still shaking, his abdominal muscle taut, as if there’s something else working him over.

 

Tony finally draws breath, and for the first time since he’s seen Steve in this shithole, he’s afraid. Really afraid that this is when the noose tightens around his neck, seconds away before the drop.

 

“Hey, Rumlow, you sicko. I know you’re watching. Is the PA on?”

 

Something crackles from the two corners of the room. “Atta boy, Bucky. Work your magic like you always do.”

 

“One day I’m gonna say fuck this shit, Rumlow. I’m always cleaning up after you.”

 

“… I’ll put in on a fuckin’ medal for your birthday, huh? Isn’t it next month?”

 

“Glad someone remembers.” Barnes circles Steve twice, not touching him, not until the third round where he settles on Steve’s bare shoulder. Steve starts, the manacles chime. A deep, wet sound erupts from his throat. But he readies himself, shoulders squared, posture suddenly hardened.

 

Barnes’ hand trails downward, just the tip of his index finger making minimal contact. It lingers at the nape of Steve’s neck, dips into where the jugular is. Barnes starts cooing like a mother would to a crying child, all of which is wasted on Steve. This is the setup he instructed his men to fix Steve up? Total sensory deprivation – no way to reach out, no way to even tell the time.

 

Trapped, non-existing?

 

They’ll break him.

 

Lower the finger goes, past the quivering Adam’s apple, past the collarbone. Then, Barnes leans in, closing the gap between his chest and Steve’s back. He claws and tugs at those blushing nipples with only the intention to hurt, and runs his fingernails along Steve’s flank. Steve endures.

 

Tony realises his own breathing mirrors Steve’s. That’s the best they could do, just keep it cool –

 

One hand comes up to cup Steve by his jaw, forcing him to look up. The other hand creeps downward, until it comes to a rest on the stupid tattoo on his hip. In mock compassion, Barnes strokes at it slowly. A brand that makes Steve _his_. He traces the perimeter of the star, his index finger tapping on it in sets of threes. Steve groans audibly, the loudest yet, and Barnes tighten his grip on Steve’s chin.

 

He seizes Steve by his cock, and pumps.

 

Tony drops his gaze. He can’t watch Steve acceding to the touches, nodding into the crook of Barnes’ shoulders as he leans into the embrace.

 

But, he’s here, Tony thinks aloud!

 

He’s _right_ here.

 

“Bet our boys wanna hear your pretty screams. You always do them so well…”

 

The buckle holding Steve’s gag in place comes loose, and it falls unceremoniously to the floor. He gulps air generously, sputtering spit everywhere. Still Barnes keeps his hand on the tattoo, a reminder of who’s holding the leash.

 

“Don’t move from your hidey hole, Stark,” Barnes suddenly exclaims. “You do anything funny, Rogers will pay for it.”

 

The hand moves from the tattoo briefly to cup Steve by his balls. He squeezes, and God –

 

“Told you he screams pretty?”

 

Raucous laughter booms from the speakers.

 

“Rumlow,” Barnes pulls off his shirt, revealing his own lean, well-sculpted torso that he shamelessly flexes with a quick arm stretch. “Why did you pick him up?”

 

“Oh, man – all this laying low is getting on my nerves. Thought you’d like to have some fun, so I –”

 

“Oh, I _will_ take my time with this.” Knuckles graze the side of Steve’s face, earlobe to chin. Steve doesn’t turn away, but his breathing is getting laboured. Sweat beads heavily near his hairline. “So, you either give me a _good_ reason why you’re risking all our heads kidnapping a cop, or I put you in my chair next.”

 

“… You’re not blind to it, are ya? Ever since Stark shows up, half of our stuff ends up in the police evidence vault. We lose more of our men with each raid, and those we don’t trust to keep their traps shut, we pop them.

 

“I’m sick of killing one of our own, you understand?”

 

Barnes jams two fingers deep into Steve’s mouth, forcing them between his teeth. He digs around, feeling every square inch of it, from the rough surface of the roof to the sleek insides of Steve’s cheeks, pressing his tongue down until he almost chokes on his own saliva.

 

“… What has that got to do with Stark and Rogers?”

 

“There’s a snitch among us, Bucky.”

 

“… Who do you think snitching, then?” Barnes steals a glance at Tony. “Stark? I admire your guts, Rumlow. You accuse him, you accuse me. I want to hear it from your mouth, Rumlow!” Barnes steps away from Steve, and begins to undo his belt and zipper. “You think _I’m_ the snitch, huh?”

 

“… Yes, Bucky. I really think I do.”

 

“… Well, fuck.”

 

He wrenches Steve’s head to the side, and shoves his cock into the open mouth.


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for... gosh. Descriptive sexual assault (I'll call it as it is: rape) and humiliation. I'm a terrible person.

How painful it is to breathe, to swallow, or just existing. Steve blows Barnes in earnest, his tongue lapping at excess saliva and God, precum – it’s how Steve gives head. Tony has received his fair share and that’s how Steve always does it – always so tidy from keeping a blowjob reasonably non-messy to smoothing out the crinkles in his bedsheets after he rises at six every morning. It plain hurts. There’s no pretending that it’s someone else in the chair, despite half of Steve’s face obscured by the blindfold.

 

It’s all _as is_. Steve deepthroating Barnes like old times, his own cock twitching and leaking from the tip.

 

“God, I forgot how amazing you are at this,” Barnes moans loudly, and paws the back of Steve’s neck, urging him to take in more. “Oh wait, forgot ‘bout this.” He reaches around, and removes the bright orange plastic pieces jamming Steve’s ears. The sudden return of senses must be jarring, and it shows. He gasps, bruised lips still wrapped firmly around Barnes’ girth, and stops his servicing.

 

“Who asks you to stop? Come on.” Barnes thrusts forward, once, twice, until Steve picks up the pace and resumes bobbing his head along the shaft.

 

“Always my little bitch, Steve…”

 

Steve leans back, Barnes’ more-than-ready cock popping out with a loud slurp. Steve dives in again, nuzzling around Barnes’ scrotum, tonging delicate flesh and skin he chances upon.

 

“Yeah, you know what I like, don’t you?”

 

A small noise erupts from Steve’s chest. A deep rumble, reluctantly expressed. He’s losing his rhythm, alternating between blowing Barnes and breathing.

 

“I’ve been good to you, yeah? Fed your needs. When you realised giving isn’t as good anymore, you begged for something better. Yeah, like that… you feeling it, Steve?”

 

Barnes pulls his cock free from Steve’s mouth, and a string of desperate moans comes outpouring. Steve almost doubles over himself, angled towards Barnes as much as his restraints allow.

 

“Let go. Let me see you.”

 

Steve bites down on his bottom lips and tenses, that even the straps holding him back whimper in duress. Broken sobs accompany his fits as he ejaculates, a pitiful volume – just a short dribble down his cock.

 

“You did good there, Steve.”

 

The PA crackles to life again. “Boy, that was his third in the hour? Man’s an animal.”

 

“Let him… go.”

 

Tony blinks away the blur in his eyes. Steve repeats his request louder, fatigue marring his confidence. “Tony’s got nothing to do with this.”

 

Barnes bops Steve lightly on his nose. “A clear majority believes otherwise. Nothing I can do about, brother.”

 

“I’ll take his place,” and Tony feels cold sweat drenching the back of his shirt. “Take me. Not the first time.”

 

“… Thought you would’ve wised up after our first adventure. You really want your ass ploughed into, huh? ‘Cause I’ve got a dozen upstairs waiting for their turn.” He turns to one of the cameras and winks. “I’m calling first dibs, of course.”

 

“… Please.”

 

Barnes gives a quick peck on Steve’s cheek. “… A-plus for effort. Didn’t know you still remember our little lesson what, five, six years ago? Do you think of me at night much? Whose name crosses your mind when you’re balls deep inside Stark, huh? Whose face?”

 

It’s over. Steve sits defeated in his chair, half-slumped, covered in filth.

 

Barnes doesn’t take silence in his stride. He smacks the small of Steve’s face with his cock. “Beg, Steve. Beg for me like the bitch you are.”

 

Shakily, Steve rasps, “… Fuck me.”

 

“Louder.”

 

“Please, Bucky.” And, a beat too long. “Fuck me.”

 

Tony locks his fist in his mouth as he watches Barnes undo everything that’s holding Steve in his chair. Hooking his arms under Steve’s armpits, he heaves, and Steve cries, of pain and shock as he’s wrenched out of his seat –

 

It’s not _just_ a chair. Tony squeezes his eyes, unaware of tears finally spilling from his lashes. A seven-inch dildo was strapped onto the seat where Steve occupies the past hour, and it’s still vibrating in lazy circles as Barnes forcibly frees Steve from it.

 

“Stay with me,” Barnes lowers Steve onto the floor. He positions himself between Steve’s legs, and lifts him by the knees. “Gonna be over soon.”

 

All Tony sees from where he stands is Barnes’ back rocking, back and forth. Hips joined, limbs intertwined, Steve does what he always does.

 

He endures. Barnes props Steve’s right leg on a shoulder and deepens his thrusting. Steve _endures_.

 

And he doesn’t beat on Steve anymore. Supporting both their weights with his arms, he leans in, their bodies truly joining as one, flushed, gapless. Whispers of words too muffled to Tony’s ears swipe in and out. They ought to make sense. More threats, perhaps? Tasteless reminders of how sex used to feel between them.

 

Yet, Steve clings to Barnes so tightly like a lifeline. His free leg wraps around Barnes’ waist, pulling him closer.

 

Tony soon loses all sense of time himself. It’s only over because Rumlow’s scratchy voice blares from the speakers amidst the low moans he’s somehow managed to tune out.

 

“We’re meeting Father in an hour.”

 

Sickening slaps of flesh on flesh grind to a halt. “Yeah. About time.”

 

“… You arranged this?”

 

“… Since we’re already gathered here, why not take the chance to do something useful?”

 

When Tony’s manned up enough to look up from his feet, Barnes is as dressed up as he could be, though his shirt is now draping Steve’s back.

 

“Get your ass here, Stark.”

 

Steve visibly starts at the mention – did he not _know_? – and Tony rushes to his side. Barnes is doing his best to support Steve, securing him as Steve relearns how to use his legs.

 

“I’m here, Steve,” Tony croaks wetly. “You’re OK.”

 

“Tony?”

 

“Here. Not going anywhere.”

 

Tony peels the stupid blindfold off. There’s more bloodshot than blue in the eyes staring back at him.

 

Rumlow just won’t give up. “Bucky, can’t let you do that.”

 

“… They’re leaving.”

 

“… They’re _dangerous_ alive. They know too much.”

 

“Presumptuous, are we?” Bearing Steve’s weight together, they take careful steps towards the door. “It’s thin ice you’re treading here, Rumlow. Besides, what am I gonna do with myself if you kill two of my best fucks?”

 

They exit the room, and promptly met with Barnes’ entourage.

 

“Bucky!” Heavy boots thud along the metal flooring of the mezzanine. “They are _not_ leaving this place!”

 

One meaningful glare at his men, they break rank, and the warehouse exit stands unguarded before them.

 

“You traitorous fuck! How could you –”

 

Barnes quickens their steps. Steve can’t handle the pace, but he steels himself and follows.

 

Just a few more strides to safety.

 

“Bucky! I swear to God, one reason, one _God damn reason_ and I will rip your lungs out, lobe by lobe myself!”

 

“Ready the cars,” Barnes instruct his men coolly. “I need a minute with Rogers.”

 

It’s just the three of them fumbling forward in a six-legged race, until Barnes deposit Steve in the passenger’s seat of Tony’s car. “Stay in L.A.” He pulls the seatbelt over Steve’s chest. “Stay gone.”

 

And then, he’s back with his men on the other side of the compound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony are freed. Yay!


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, it's Gen-rated :) We're close to the ending, people. Thank you so much for holding on! <3

It’s three in the afternoon. It’ll take slightly longer to get to Steve’s dorm – look at the traffic, there’s an idiot going forty on the fucking highway. Tony honks at the car and swerves around it, glaring at the driver as he revs past it.

 

For good measure, he flips the bird, and feels tremendously satisfied that he’s gotten a rise out of the balding, come-smash-my-face-in middle-aged man –

 

“Shit.”

 

As if being a maxed-out asshole could magick L-freaking-A into his vicinity.

 

Tony throws another glance at Steve, a newly cultivated habit he’s happy doing every five-minute or so. Steve hasn’t moved since they got on the highway, having found a comfortable niche in the passenger seat he’s strapped into. They would’ve done away with the seatbelt if it wasn’t – apparently – potentially lethal, Steve doesn’t need to be _strapped_ into anything, not after –

 

Steve shifts again. Thank God, because Tony was about to poke him or something, if only to make sure he’s still… alive?

 

He’s done all he could for Steve’s comfort. That means rear windows wound down, no air-conditioning. The warehouse had been chilly enough to last five winters, and Steve had nothing on him for protection against the element. Barnes’ shirt doesn’t count, and God help him, he wanted to destroy it so bad, shred it, burn it – but Steve’s since slipped into the sleeves and buttoned it properly on its front.

 

While idling at the traffic light, he passed Steve a roll of tissue paper from the glove box. For the life of him – as Steve reached out to take it – he couldn’t get the words out.

 

 _I’m sorry?_ Sorry doesn’t even _begin_ to cut it. _Are you OK?_ Trite.

 

Steve wordlessly wiped off residual semen from his body. Tony tried not to look too hard. He shouldn’t even _be_ in the same space right now. But, what were they going to do? They needed to get their asses back in L.A.

 

He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s heeding Barnes’ instructions. Not one millisecond spent on doubting them.

 

He draws his wandering mind to the here and now. Steve has listed to his side, leaning against the door, one arm propping up his forehead. His reflection off the window is one of a weary man, fast asleep.

 

Tony eases off the accelerator and cruises at a less suicidal speed.

 

He’s hurting, too. He’s forgotten about it, _completely_ – not difficult to. He’s blazing down the highway under the sweltering heat of midday Saturday so single-mindedly: get Steve somewhere safe, get Steve to L.A.

 

He frees up one hand and tugs at his own seatbelt. It’s starting to cut too deeply into his chest, and it’s flaring something fierce. Makes breathing difficult. There’s a persistent lump in his throat that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he swallows, and just his luck, there’s no water around. Steve used to nag about storing a bottle of water in his car, and he’d say it’s unsafe to drink “microwaved” water that’s been literally left to bake under the windscreen, and then they’d spend the next fifteen minutes arguing about that stupid bottle of water.

 

“Oh, God…”

 

Hot tears spill from the well of his eyes.

 

He thumbs them away. He has _no right._

 

And Steve begins to snore. The worried crinkles on his forehead even out. Unbelievably so, completely at ease in his safe space that happens to have Tony Stark within arm’s reach.

 

His sobs grow and he clamps hard over his nose and mouth. He can’t _see_ the freaking car in front of him, so he dries his eyes. If he has to fucking _smile_ to make it through, he would, God damn it, _he would_.

 

* * *

 

“Steve?”

 

He has _no_ idea how he managed to roll his car into the parking spot registered to Steve’s unit. He felt only relief as he waved at the security guard patrolling the parking bay.

 

Only dread when he killed the engine.

 

“Steve?” he repeats, louder.

 

Steve stirs, eyes blinking sluggishly as he adjusts to the dimness. He looks around somewhat urgently – it makes Tony’s fingers curl tighter into the steering wheel.  

 

“We’re home, Steve,” he explains slowly.

 

Blue eyes snap onto him, and they dart over the small expanse of his features. Steve obviously has something to say, the muscles in his jaws flexing as he decides on silence or otherwise.

 

Tony begs for silence. He looks away, and draws in one, deep inhale.

 

Suddenly, Steve is out of the car.  

 

He pushes past a set of doors and disappears behind them. Tony breaks into a run, not bothering to check if all four doors are properly locked when he activates his alarm. Steve’s gone – can’t let Steve _be gone._ He barges through the door, and –

 

“Steve!”

 

Footsteps echo from above. How is Steve still –

 

“Wait up! Steve!”

 

In the next heartbeat, he’s propelling up the stairs two steps at a time. It’s not doing great for his lungs, but he keeps at it because Steve is still nowhere to be found.

 

And then, he is, leaning heavily against the wall just slightly out of sight. He’s sweating again, a hand clutching his lower abdomen.

  
“Shit – are you, do you need… what should I do –”

 

What’s he going to do? He’s gotten them both to L.A. What’s next?

 

He jabs repeatedly at the elevator button – should’ve done this from the beginning. Should’ve also known how stubborn Steve can be at the worst possible moments – like now – so he holds the door open as Steve hobbles unsteadily into the elevator himself. And he fights his way through the mercifully empty hallway, to his unit, past the sitting room, and promptly locks himself in the bathroom.

 

Tony hears the shower running before he could even lock the front door.

 

And in that crowd of one, in the stillness of the sitting room, he wedges himself between the coffee table and the armchair on the cold, hard floor, and finally allows himself to cry.


	61. Chapter 61

This isn’t going to break him.

 

He isn’t _allowing_ this to break him. He supposes there’ll be a time for everybody to – what do people do in times of mourning? – sit down, have a beer, trade sob stories. Five years from now they’re going to look back at this and laugh.

 

The bathroom door swings open, and Steve locks himself immediately in his bedroom.

 

Tony dabs his face dry with his sleeves and clears his throat. He’s got to triage this damn mess, he’s got to make sure Steve doesn’t do anything weird, or foolish, or self-destructive, because doing all those has served Tony so well in the past.

 

And then, Steve reappears in the sitting room, dressed in a freshly ironed button-up and slacks.

 

“Steve? You look…”

 

Steve looks heavens apart from wretchedness, was what he wanted to say. Ask anyone from the streets to guess what happened to Steve one hour ago and they’ll probably say, “A hot date?”

 

He looks heavens apart from Tony himself.

 

“… I need to go.”

 

“Go? Go where?” He steps around Tony to get to the door, but Tony immediately presses his back against it, one arm stretched out as precaution. “Steve, you’re not thinking straight, all right? How about some rest? I can make us sandwiches? Wanna get some sleep? It’s been a long – long ride home.”

 

And then, for the longest of time, Steve looks at Tony. Really looks at him, assessing every strained line on his features. His eyes linger where tear tracks had dried up, and scroll towards his collar where frayed ends of bandages are peeking out.

 

“… They hurt you.”

 

“I – what? No.”

 

“Did they…?” Steve’s throat bobs, the words trailing into silence. Lucky for them, they’re gifted telepathic. They could make salad together by just pointing at lettuce and mayo with their lips. Words just aren’t necessary. They were so _in-sync_ – so where did it start to go so wrong?

 

In an unprecedented show of strength and confidence, Steve steps back – a comfortable, platonic distance from Tony, and asks, “What did Rumlow tell you on the phone?”

 

That’s the signal for the door and four walls to swallow him whole.

 

“Why did you agree to meet with Rumlow?”

 

It’s downright chilling. “… I don’t know who Rumlow is –”

 

Steve turns his back abruptly against Tony, and runs his fingers through his hair. His shoulders shake with suppressed _frustration –_ if he lets go, he’ll tear this place apart.

 

“OK,” he mutters under his breath. “OK. Tony, I’m…”

 

But it’s _fine._ So, Tony braces himself for a breakdown, a lash out. He’ll be whatever Steve needs him to be.

 

“I’m gonna need you to do something for me.”

 

“… Anything you need, Steve.”

 

Anything at all. He swears he’ll provide it.

 

“… There’s an operation the ATF has been working on that I need to go back to urgently,” Steve begins slowly. “A man’s life is at stake. A good man’s. And I need –”

 

“Can’t that wait? Can’t you give yourself one God damn night to… to _get better_?”

 

“He’ll be dead if I take that one God damn night cuddling pillows to sleep and hoping things will be A-OK the next day –”

 

“This isn’t _normal_ , Steve!” He pushes himself off the door, but remains guarded by the knob. “You got… just got…”

 

Shit – he would _not_ shed one tear in front of Steve –

 

“What? Say it,” Steve bites out. “I can see it in your eyes. Like with all the others.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“That this is what I am – what I do – whoring myself out.” Tony blanches. “So, go ahead. Throw me a pity party so we can slow dance, so I can lick my wounds, because clearly I wasn’t capable of handling my issues –”

 

“Steve –”

 

“I’m _managing._ Aren’t I? How can I live my life if you won’t _let me_?”

 

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

 

Steve advances on him. “Out of the way, Tony.”

 

“… No.”

 

“You’ve done _enough,_ OK? I’m not gonna sit on my hands when my men are risking their fucking necks keeping us safe. I’m not saying this again. Get out of my way.”

 

“… Make me.”

 

His mouth grows immediately desert dry when he says it. Steve might’ve decided to wring him by his neck. He’s not thinking straight – because Tony’s such a stable personality, too – but he knows deep in his heart, that if he lets Steve out of his sight now, he won’t ever forgive himself.

 

And Steve stalks back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

 

Fury? OK. Fiery tantrums, punching bolsters, swatting books from shelves – bring it on, he can deal with those. He’ll take them over that Zen bullshit Steve’s ascribed to when dealing with a _catastrophe,_ and let’s face it, this has all the hallmarks of one.

 

Before he could even finish that thought, Steve emerges from his room again, his cell phone plastered to his ear.

 

“… I understand, Sir.”

 

Either Steve has done demolishing what few possessions he keeps in that chamber, or…

 

“I will, Sir. He was uh, involved. I’m ready for the meeting if you would – yes, Sir.”

 

“What the fuck, Steve?” he hisses, and Steve shuts him up with a pointed jab of his index finger. “What meeting?”

 

“… A medical unit has just been despatched. They’ll be here in five minutes. They’ll look you over –”

 

“No!”

 

“ _Yes_. I’ll stay here with you until they’re done, OK?”

 

It’s not about _him._ He doesn’t give a rat’s _ass_ about –

 

“And then, I’ll have to bring you in. Carol Danvers, Supervisory Special Agent – she wants to speak with you.”


	62. Chapter 62

The idea of having strangers poking and prodding his wonderfully bruised self makes him want to pelt sodden tissue papers at incoming medics. But, he behaves himself because Steve makes him stay put in the armchair, and pins him in place with a glare. Imagine that, them staying in complete silence and stillness for fifteen minutes – any other day, Tony would’ve been fiddling with the remote control one minute in, and they would be constructing a complete _thesis_ about a beer commercial.

 

When the White ones finally make their grand appearance, first aid kits in tow, Steve gets up first and _shakes their hands_. Who does that?

 

Then, Tony dedicates the next five minutes of his life fielding questions with grunts and curt nods or shakes of his head, his game face plastered on throughout. When one of them – a lady who won’t take his shit lying down, he belatedly notes – attempts to cut up his T-shirt with her scissors, he freaks out.

 

“Sir, I need to look at your injuries.”

 

She must’ve been repeating her intentions for a while now because they _sound_ familiar, but they just flew over his head. They don’t compute. He folds his hands over his knees and lets them have a go at the Picasso of blue and black that is his torso.

 

Steve is idling by the dining table, surrounded by a mini-team of concerned personnel who honestly, look more troubled about whatever Steve’s telling them than Steve himself. He’s as emotionally charged as a Greek bust, and then he ushers them to the bedroom, and closes the door behind him.

 

“I’m fine,” Tony hisses when someone sprays analgesia over his biceps. “I’m – you know what, this is unnecessary. Maybe you should pay more attention to Steve? I mean, he’s… you’re wasting resources with me, Steve’s worse off than me. He’s gonna need all the help –”

 

“Agent Rogers is in good hands. We have to redress some of these bandages, so please sit still –”

 

“I get that – thank you, really.” He scoots to his right when a grabby gloved hand shoots out of nowhere to offer an alcohol-soaked gauze. “OK, just one of you will do. Just make sure Steve is… he won’t let me help him, so _you_ got to.”

 

“Agent Rogers is fine. My colleagues are providing him the best care they could.”

 

Why isn’t anybody listening?

 

“You have to help him! He’s being a stubborn ass about it – please!”

 

“Mr Stark, calm down –”

 

“They…” Turns out, it’s really easy to get the words out once he’s started. So easy for a cracked dam to shatter when given enough pressure. “It’s my fault, _my fault_ that Steve’s… Steve is…” And then the river gushes freely. “Should’ve listened when he said stop, should’ve listened –”

 

A bright orange shock blanket weighs down upon his shoulders. He backs into the armchair, and is absolutely ashamed of what little control he’s left over himself.

 

“Signs of assault and involuntary restraints, blunt force trauma concentrated on the chest –”

 

“No signs of fractures –”

 

“Superficial lacerations, no stitches required –”

 

Just go to Steve.

 

It takes too long for them to finally leave his side and regroup with the others in Steve’s bedroom. The lady medic remains. Her hand still lingers on his shoulder, reassuring.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you. Thank you.”

 

It takes too long for Steve to reappear. He crouches before Tony, and slowly, carefully, clasps his two hands over Tony’s knees.

 

“Hey.”

 

Tony doubles over in his seat, arms wrapping around his stomach as the skin pulls and aches. They meet halfway, foreheads resting against each other.

 

He gasps shakily, wetly, and thinks he can hold back no more.

 

* * *

 

“Mr Stark, pleasure to meet you. I’m Carol Danvers.”

 

Three hours since they got back to L.A. in one piece. Two hours since the medic gave them a clean bill of health – the cleanest they could get anyway, all things considered. One hour since Tony’s collected enough to reassess facts objectively.

 

He’s rearing to go.

 

“Just Tony’s fine,” he shakes her proffered hand, and claims his seat beside Steve. Can he take a minute to revel in Danvers’ office? Although, it’s probably not even one – her name is not on the door, as he would expect of a ranked ATF agent’s – but it’s larger than Steve’s sitting room. And uncluttered. How odd, because Tony would impulsively fill up negative spaces with stuff. Unlike Steve who's plenty contented with a room bereft of worldly material - man would be so happy reading leaflets on the floor nursing a mug of tap water.

 

The floor to ceiling windows are not tinted, but their shades have been drawn to shield them from the evening sun.

 

“It’s our rec room,” Danvers elaborates, noticing how smitten Tony is by the consoles and a sixty-five-inch TV screen at the far corner. “The folks need to wind down sometimes, considering the nature of our assignments.”

 

“I’ll be damned,” he replies with a tight smile. “You’ve been holding out on me, Steve. This is why you only come home every weekend?” He surveys the generous stack of DVDs. “ _I’ll_ come home every weekend, too.”

 

“I suppose there’s no easy way to start this but,” she interlinks her fingers in her lap, “are you sure you’re OK with this discussion? I don’t wish to imply that you’re obligated to do this _now,_ but if you need some time to sort things out…”

 

“We’re going to need your account on the… _incidences_ ,” Steve explains, “so if you think your… judgement, or recollection is influenced by…” he struggles a bit for the right diction, “recent traumatic experiences –”

 

“I understand that it’s urgent,” Tony interjects, and addresses Danvers direct. “That a man’s life is at stake.”

 

“… That is correct.”

 

“How can I help you?”


	63. Chapter 63

Danvers exchanges a look with Steve, and Tony pretends it doesn’t affect him. He’s _fine_ , because _Steve’s fine,_ and Steve said there’s something – some _one_ – that takes priority, so there. He can and will take the warehouse slumber party in his stride and dedicate every fibre of his being to helping the AT-freaking-F.

 

That’s what Steve wants, isn’t it?

 

“Thank you, Tony. You are aware that the medics have taken swabs, samples from your clothes and body to assist with the investigation?”

 

He nods gruffly.

 

“I’ll advise you to provide the LAPD your statement as soon as you can, while your memory is still, ah… fresh –”

 

“Wait, the LAPD?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“… I’m under the impression I’m giving you the statement here.”

 

She chews on her lips a bit, eyes contemplative and piercing. He’d say he detects unease. Hesitance. But she plays her game well. The longer she regards him, the hotter his seat feel. Maybe in the next minute she’d sic an incandescent lamp on him, screaming for answers to questions he can’t imagine the ATF would have for him.

 

“Our informants have been keeping an eye on you for the past four months or so. The details of our operation are classified, but we’re all adults here,” she glances at Steve, “we can do away with the preamble. I’d like to know the details of your business with Hydra’s number two, Bucky Barnes.”

 

“… What’s a Hydra?”

 

She draws a deep, steadying breath. “It’s a label that rival gangs assign to the organisation Barnes belong to. They find it derogatory, for some reasons. They don’t acknowledge the name.”

 

Why though. “Hydra” sure beats “beloved family”.

 

“Under what circumstances did you first meet Barnes? Was it coincidental?”

 

Oh, he remembers the day vividly. He curses it. Better still, Steve doesn’t know about it. He mirrors Danvers’ position, interlacing his own fingers over his knees. God, he will burn for this.

 

“I was on my way back to Steve’s place after a grocery run. Early evening, I think. I took a shortcut through an alley and he… jumped me. Gave me a call card and said,” he remembers Barnes’ warm breath hissing into his ears, “he knows I’ve been poking around a certain… incident –”

 

“What incident is this?”

 

“… A convention in 2012,” he admits. “There was a… fight. An SPD was assaulted and grievously injured. Barnes was implicated.”

 

Steve has gone so still.

 

“Three gang members were made scapegoat by the org. I figured that was just part of a bigger plan. Barnes found out I was talking to these people, nosing where I shouldn’t, and decided to pay me a visit.”

 

“OK,” Danvers nods. “When did this happen? You have a date?”

 

He racks his brain. “… A couple of weeks after Steve was transferred to the ATF. Mid to end January.”

 

“What did you do with this offer?”

 

At this rate, she might as well flay him alive and set him over an open flame. That might be preferable to admitting all the lies and half-truths and unspeakable things he’s done in Steve’s absence, behind Steve’s back – right in Steve’s face.

 

“It wasn’t… believe me, I wasn’t thrilled about it.” He imagines Steve eyerolling so hard they make a full three-sixty into a thousand-yard stare.

 

“Yet, you arranged for a meeting with Barnes sometime later.”

 

“… Yes.”

 

“What did you learn from him?”

 

“Nothing much. I have names, faces. Mostly dead ends. He gave me a sample of that…” he sighs, and combs his hair with his fingers, “drug. I learn about their MO – that they make it a seasonal thing. There’s something _different,_ something special about this drug that makes it expensive, and that’s why they sell it only to those, quoting them… the horny privileged. I’d figured that’s why the org has been so elusive, and protected from the cops? The org leeches off the influence and power from the more affluent clients, and in return provide them with drugs.”

 

He notes how high Danvers’ eyebrows have gone up her forehead. “Do you know what’s inside the drugs, then?”

 

“… I sent it over to a diagnostic lab downtown. The chemist said it’s got all the usual good stuff, plus one other unidentifiable compound. She later matches it to a patented compound, SB909, that belongs to Alchemax.”

 

“Yes. We thank you for the lab reports you gave to Agent Rogers. We will compensate the fees you paid for the NMR services.”

 

Thank you, he supposes? He nods again, feeling more and more detached about their little roundtable. Now that he’s recounting his journalistic espionage to Danvers, his laundry list of achievements only serves to validate the breadth and depth of his betrayal. Because if deep down in his heart that this were right, this wouldn’t feel much like a confession.

 

“That’s quite the information you got from Barnes, all things considered. I commend your courage, Mr Stark.”

 

“… Thanks.”

 

“That is all, then.”

 

“… Really?”

 

“Yes. If you recall anything else, you can call me direct.” And she passes him a spiffy name card. “I’d also like to formally request your cooperation in the extraction of Bucky Barnes from Hydra.”


	64. Chapter 64

“Whatever you need,” he agrees immediately. And then only he realises, either that was a trick question, or they were expecting something else – anything at all – not this. Compliance? After all that’d happened – just, _why?_ Danvers doesn’t pick up the conversation after that. She sits there and watches him like a freshly painted wall drying off. Steve has started scratching the webbing between his fingers since a couple of minutes ago – don’t know if there’s a real itch or not – but he won’t take back what he’s said.

 

He’s given so much to _not_ see this to its end. Hell, if pole dancing naked in the Arctic would put Hydra in jail, he would.

 

“Believe it or not, you’re in a highly strategic position in Hydra.”

 

Takes more than words to convince him of that. Personal experience tells him what a banged-up job that is.

 

“Barnes has made you the go-to person when they need to push their products into the market.”

 

Holly –

 

“Whoa – first off, I’ve _never_ sold anything for them –”

 

Steve clasps one hand fully over Tony’s. “That’s not what we’re going for. Bucky made you the middle-man. We know there hasn’t been any transactions yet.”

 

Steve’s hand is icy cold against his own.

 

Danvers uncrosses her legs, and adds, “There _will_ be one coming up soon. Hydra has been operating under the radar for a full month. There have been intense moments of internal conflicts – power struggles, uncertainties in who’ll be running the show.”

 

“For once, I believe in the power of ballot-casting,” Tony smirks ruefully, his own thumb tracing idle circles over Steve’s.

 

“In that one month, they’ve also commissioned some chemists to brew a new batch of drugs. We have reasons to believe that this one is also laced with SB909. Because of the raids we’ve mounted on their turf lately, they’ll want to be extra careful about this thing. That means, no storage, no middle men.”

 

“… I thought, I’m supposed to be the middle man?”  

 

“The one and only. Yes.”

 

“… I see a minor flaw in that plan. I can’t introduce Barnes to anyone because I _don’t know anyone_ interested in drugs –”

 

“No, you don’t.” She crosses her leg over a knee again. “When you show up with your clients, Barnes will be there with the goods. From the manufacturer to the users, direct. Quick and clean. Cash-and-go.”

 

Be that as it may…

 

“Sounds dangerous.” Call him a wuss, but that’s what it sounds like to him.

 

“Your prospective clients will also double as your chaperone. One of the most elite units specialising in hostage extraction and close quarter combat. They will be tasked to ensure yours and Barnes’ safety at all costs.” She taps her heel on the carpeted floor. “This transaction is meant to be a one-time offer. Barnes will be bringing down their entire stash. It’s only reasonable to expect the best security from their side, too.”

 

“We wouldn’t have asked this of you if we could,” Steve offers, so softly that it’s almost meant only for Tony’s ears. “We’re running out of time.”

 

“Desperate time, desperate measures and all that jazz?”

 

“Yeah.” His knuckles are white against Tony’s.

 

Danvers stands up and extends her hand, one as warm as sunshine. Tony accepts it, the dark turmoil in his chest roaring something fierce at the contact. “You don’t have to decide right now. Rogers is right, time is of essence. I stand by what I said, you have done the country a great service with your journalistic endeavour. I’d like to ask you to help us one more time, but the risk is real. There’s a lot at stake.”

 

“… What will happen if I say no?”

 

She releases his hand. “We’ll figure something else, then.” With one last nod at Tony, she steps aside. “Rogers, if you need some time off, I could arrange for Dugan to take over –”

 

“No.”

 

Tony knows that tone.

 

“This op has been passed around enough times. That’s what landed us in this position in the first place. I have to end this myself, Carol.”

 

That’s the tone Steve used on him when he professed how hell-bent he was in pursuing the truth behind Steve’s photographs. The same tone when Steve told him to give up, to stop doing things that would only reopen scabs, tear the wound afresh.

 

Did he listen?

 

“All right. Trust your judgement, Rogers.” Her voice dips a little. “You don’t have to go this alone.”

 

“… Thank you.”


	65. Chapter 65

The good thing about walking back from the field office to the dorm is, it’s short. Tony could see the rooftop of Steve’s apartment from the curb. But physical distance aside, nothing _else_ about the walk is.

 

“We should go to the hospital.”

 

Steve’s bright idea. Of course, they should. Some forensic expert would sit them – Steve – down on a gurney, collect blood and semen samples from his body. There’s no way Barnes and company are getting away with something so incriminating – which are all, by the way, swirling down the drainpipes because that’s what Steve chose to do.

 

It’s gone. Steve chose to flush evidence down the drainpipes because Barnes fucked him and he was cool with it. _Steve chose to._ Tony believes that.

 

Tell him he’s overthinking it. Tell him how dare he think of Steve that way.

 

Yet, he sees it from a mile away, that there’s _something_ still between Barnes and Steve. A mutual understanding that Tony would never understood, or could ever share with.

 

But, Steve’s his.

 

Know what he needs? Time. Some time to _not think_ , so he could _feel_ and remember how it’s like to be alive. Sure feels hollow inside. Every step closer to the dorm, his feet feel heavier. The sole of his shoes drag on the tarmac, and he realises he doesn’t really want to go home.

 

They wait for the elevator this time, though a five-story climb is a cakewalk any other day.

 

He mumbles something like “shower” – the word rolls off his tongue like a pebble on sandpaper – and loses himself under a torrent of hot water. Now he has his wish. Time. To _not_ think. To feel.

 

To remember what it’s like loving Steve.

 

He blinks away rivulets of shampooed water – God, they sting – and shuts his eyes all together. Water bounces off his back, runs down between his thighs. He’s scared that he could assign different faces to hands wedged between his legs. Yellowed teeth promising sweet death, cigarette-scented breath against his neck –

 

His heart thrum madly against his chest. This does it – stop thinking –

 

Steve won’t know. Steve won’t, because he won’t tell. Swear to God, he will take this to the graves, because if he could spare Steve…

 

“Oh, God…”

 

Steve, Steve, Steve. How much of what he did was for Steve? Feels like he’s been weaving a nice, thick noose from jute and looping it around Steve’s throat. Highlight of today was just him tightening the knot and finally kicking the stool Steve’s standing on.

 

And something smashes against the floor outside of the bathroom. Tony jolts awake, and stops the shower.

 

“Steve?”

 

Nothing.

 

He wraps a towel hastily around his waist and wrenches the door open. It’s so still out here, and Steve’s nowhere to be found –

 

Toes. He sees toes poking out near the dining table.

 

“Steve, hey.”

 

But, Steve’s down, face first against the tiled wall, one arm trying to push himself up. Vain attempts – he’s shaking too bad to move effectively, so Tony grabs him and pulls him up to a sitting position, when –

 

“Move –”

 

He throws up there and then. It splatters against the smooth edge of the table, the chair –

 

“Breathe, Steve. I’m here.”

 

He wretches again.

 

“Stay with me,” Tony begs. There’s a lump in his throat that he can’t dislodge. He lets it go, and he buries his face into the back of Steve’s shoulders. “What have I done?”

 

“Water…”

 

“Water.” That he could do. He could help with that. “Water, yeah.” He snatches a box of tissue from the dining table and pushes it to Steve’s lap. “One second.”

 

It was supposed to be straightforward! Use Barnes as a means of getting _in_ , collect evidences, and get out. Report their asses to the police, and boom! Case closed. They can enjoy their twenty behind bars, as he prays for mob justice upon them. That’s closure.

 

“Steve, I’m so sorry.” When the first tear escapes his eyes, he bows his head so low his chin sits atop his chest. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I should’ve listened. I can’t ever…”

 

He chokes, and swipes his palm over his face. Steve isn’t even looking at him.

 

“If I could fix this –”

 

“You know what they say about a broken car?” Steve interjects, a quiet breath above apologies. “Sometimes, it just isn’t worth fixing.”

 

“No,” more tears stream down Tony’s face. “Please. Don’t say that.”

 

“If you knew Bucky for who he was, before, you’d have only good words to say about him. The bravest man I know, and a loyal friend. A good man.” Steve’s throat bobs, and he spares Tony a wan smile. “There was no Facebook in those days. We didn’t keep in touch after we got back.” He chuckles. “Should’ve tried harder. And then, we met again. Not as friends, but as… men from opposite sides of the law. You know this.” Tony wishes they’d carry more heat. Blame him, yell at him. Tell him how he’d failed Steve, if only to shred him anew so he could _feel_.

 

“I told you to stay away from him. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

 

And Tony exhales shakily, his fists tighten by his sides. “You didn’t give up on him, then.”

 

“… I did not.”

 

“You _haven’t_ given up on him, still.”

 

“There was kindness, and compassion in his cruelty. I can’t show you how I feel, make you see it – but I know him.” Then, he hikes up his shirt, and runs his palm against the tattoo. “The worst that could’ve happened, did not because of this. I knew what it _meant_ when he gave it to me. No, it wasn’t for…” he steals one quick look at Tony and laughs. It rings empty. “For some sick gloating, or staking claims – no. Survival. That’s what he gave me, a chance to survive that somehow. And I took it. I survived.”

 

 “That was five years ago. Why keep it where it hurts most?”

 

“I told you,” and Steve averts his gaze to the wall clock. “So long ago. There are worse ways to desecrate a man. Pleasure and pain of the flesh reminds you where you are.” He holds out his arm, and grimaces at a bruise that looks uncannily like fingers. “But they can’t take away your ambition, and hope. You can only lose it.”

 

“I don’t understand, Steve,” Tony pleads again. The distant, not-really-here look has ghosted across Steve’s façade. He’s afraid, that he _is_ already losing Steve.

 

Gently, so gently Steve reaches out for Tony’s fist, still balled up so tightly that fingernails are leaving crescent-shaped indentations in his palm. He coaxes it to his tattoo, and Tony eases his grip. Steve bottom lip begins to tremble. He arranges Tony’s hand so that only the index finger is jutting out. And he uses that as a stylus, tapping it against his tattoo in sets of three.

 

“I lost him once. If only I’d looked harder, I would know. I kept the tattoo to remind myself how I’d failed him.” He shudders, and his shoulders shake. But he perseveres, voice soaking with anguish as he presses Tony’s finger pad against his hip, meticulously in the same sets of three. “As he took me, abused me, he spelled his wish the only way he knew and could. I didn’t know how much he’d improved at Morse. He used to suck at it so bad.”

 

Steve’s tears fall off his chin, and splash onto Tony’s knuckles.

 

“’Save me’.”

 

His grip on Tony’s wrist tighten as he forces himself to still.

 

“Now’s my chance to fix this. Let me.”


	66. Chapter 66

See? _That’s_ exactly what Tony’s talking about. That level of dedication and commitment to Barnes, over and over again, pulling him out of the fire no matter the cost. There’s a kind of bond forged from fire and blood, nigh unbreakable and he _gets_ it. Steve’s Steve. It’s what he does. He’d cut off a pound of flesh to feed starving ravens if he has to.

 

News flash, folks.

 

“I’d do the same for you, Steve.” Lightly, he brushes away the wetness from Steve’s lashes. “I’d do the same for you. You asked me to let this go. To stop. I will, I promise you. But _you stop, too._ ”

 

“Can’t,” he chokes wetly, and presses their clasped hands against his forehead. “There’s so much I need you to understand, but I can’t – can’t tell you. Not yet.”

 

“Why does he _matter?_ ” That’s the only question that does, isn’t it? “Why Barnes?” Come to think of it… “How long have you known that I was working with him anyway?”

 

For _ages_ , surely. Barnes would’ve mentioned it in his reports. How that information was relayed to Steve is everybody’s guess. The ATF work in their own mysterious ways. Maybe it involves more Morse codes, who knows? He’s so numb on the inside nothing feels remotely shocking anymore.

 

“Why didn’t you call for backup?” Tony presses. “Why did you show up alone?”

 

“Why did _you_?”

 

“If I didn’t, I’d be a traitor.”

 

“Same reason. If the cops came, you’d be saved. But my men in Hydra wouldn’t, and they would’ve been accused of bringing a traitor into their fold, or worse, exposed. All we’d worked for would be for nothing.”

 

Be that as it may, something is still amiss. If Barnes were every bit as important as Danvers imply it to be, and if today’s showdown was any indication, they’d be wise to extract him the soonest they could.

 

So, why didn’t they? Why wait three more days?

 

“… When did you learn about the drug deal?”

 

“Tony, please.”

 

“No. It isn’t adding up.” Fog’s lifting. It’s becoming clearer to him now. “Look at me, damn it. Steve –” he takes Steve by his shoulder. “When did you learn about the drug deal? When did Danvers plan this extraction?”

 

Tell him the info is stale. Tell him it was so last week.

 

Steve draws in a shaky breath. “Just now.”

 

Anybody with eyes or without could _see_ from a mile away that Rumlow’s call was a trap. Tony had reasons – freaking good ones – to go alone, largely because he likes where his innards are. Steve would’ve – _should’ve_ – called in help, because Steve’s supposed to be the man with a plan. Calling the cops is only logical. It’s sound!

 

“No. You weren’t protecting your men by showing up alone. If you were, you would’ve called them first. Sent a smoke signal, whatever.” Tony huffs and shakes his head. He can’t believe it. “You used me.”

 

“Tony –”

 

“You used me,” he repeats, louder. It makes things more tangible. “You didn’t call Barnes to check if he were OK, because you _couldn’t._ A drug deal that big and you _just_ found out? You haven’t been talking to Barnes yourself these days, have you? Because they were told to lie low. So, you cut off communications on this side as well.”

 

The grimace on Steve’s features is almost perpetual.

 

That’s all Tony needs to know.

 

“You needed a way to get to him. _I am your way in._ Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

“I wish I could say more –”

 

“Give me a break!” He wrenches his hand from Steve’s, and scoots a clean yard away. “You _used_ me, Steve!”

 

Steve’s tears stream freely down, his sobs wet and frequent. But they have nothing, _nothing_ on how Tony feels inside. Steve sits before him, limp on the floor, hapless beside his pool of vomit – but he sees Barnes stuck to his hip, thrusting into him. “God help us,” and Tony can’t bear the sight of it anymore.   

 

“I’m sorry, Tony.”

 

He’d go to heaven and back for Steve. He would, and he did.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tony _._ ”

 

He must be something stupid, because despite all this? He still will.

 

“You went through all that, for him. And you just can’t stop, can you, Steve?”

 

“I’m sorry… so sorry…”

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

How the table has flipped so completely. How he missed the simpler times, when all it took to stop the hurting was a stupid banana. What they had between them, built carefully over a foundation of trust and transparency has now turned to muck. His own hands are soiled. He dug the hole in the ground, made his bed in it.

 

“I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you.”

 

He just needs Steve to help him along. Bury him good. He wants to hear it from those lips that’d kissed him fully as Steve’s sheathed inside, wrapped in his warmth. From which his name had spilled one too many times in the heat of things.

 

“But who are you doing this for? Me,” Tony swipes the shadows under his eye with a knuckle. “Or Barnes?”

 

This time, Steve won’t lie. He owes them at least this one.

 

“… I’d do it again if I have to.”


	67. Chapter 67

Nightfall. Eleven – so that’s late. One more hour to Monday, and he just got off the phone from a lovely conversation with the key permissive factor for his next pay check – his boss. It was the easiest chats he’d had these days. All he had to do between the screaming was apologise and promise to buck up and give his hundred and twenty percent next week.

 

“Five days of unpaid leave, Stark! That’s all I can give you. While you’re at it, think about what you’d like to do the next ten years, ‘cause you’re projecting disinterest, and the higher-ups are starting to look for options.”

 

He’ll be spending the next ten years in therapy, that’s what.

 

He chucks his phone into his pillow and plops down at the foot of his bed. Well, not really _his,_ but it’s his to use for tonight and the next. This room is quite plainly furnished, clean and sterile. Serviceable. He’s not asking for much either. Just needed a bed and some privacy within the ATF complex.

 

Three hours ago, he called Danvers at the number printed on her card, and said his “yes”. She asked if he’d like to bunk in with Steve, or borrow a guest room housed in the compoud. Without further ado, he grabbed some of his stuff from Steve’s bedroom and mumbled something like “I got a room nearby” before Steve could say anything else.

 

Nope. Steve is _done_ giving opinions, and he marched all the way to the main complex without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

 

It’s government lodging. It’s… at least, the staff canteen is just downstairs. There’s a vending machine at the end of his corridor. The rec room is in the adjacent wing. It’s a lovely staycation, made lovelier because it’s free.

 

At breakfast – already? – his legs feel jelly enough that he wants to ooze down the steps and grab a cup of coffee, when for the first time in sixteen hours he sees Steve again. Steve is brooding at a corner table, nursing a cup of something himself, and Tony wonders why because Steve always insists in preparing his own meal. He thinks because that’s a survival skill, and homecooked food is way healthier, and –

 

Tony turns around and runs up the stairs, coffee be damned. Closing the door behind him, he leans and bumps the back of his skull against it repeatedly, because he’s a freaking _idiot, coward, idiot, coward…_

 

Until whatever crap that is fate, destiny, decides to put an end to his stewing in his room – with a text message from Barnes’ number:

 

_Old Sacramento City Garage. Tomorrow, 8 p.m. We have enough for everyone. Only cash._

He shoves his phone under his pillow, and _not_ hyperventilate for two full minutes. The whole village is turning up tomorrow. Looking forward to the crosshairs between his eyes, a bullseye on his back. It feels like going to the dentist. Don’t want his name to come up next, don’t want the seconds to drag into minutes, but his turn _will_ come, and he thinks, what’s the point of prolonging them miseries. Call it _now._

 

He grabs his phone, rereads the few lines over and over again until the pixels are more or less ingrained into his retina. Then, he runs.

 

“Steve, it’s me.”

 

He pounds on the door a few more times until his knuckles whine. The lights are on, so Steve must be inside, and it’s near dinner time, so he must be cooking.

 

“Come on, open up. This is important.”

 

There’s no sound from the kitchen. No sound, period. No movement. Steve doesn’t leave the lights on in a room he’s not in. Something about saving energy, saving the planet –

 

“Steve?”

 

He tries the door knob and finds it locked. Then, he shoves his phone into his pocket and uses his keys, lets himself in and finally, _finally_ he hears Steve retching in the bathroom.

 

Tony’s squatted beside him in a heartbeat, who’s leaning heavily against the porcelain throne, hair and shirt damp with cold sweat.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Christ. _What’s wrong?_

 

Idiot.

 

Steve spits into the bowl before he turns two bleary, bloodshot eyes to Tony. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and slowly, recognition dawns. The edge of the toilet seat creaks as his fingers curl tighter around it.

 

“We’re getting you cleaned up, yeah? Come on, Steve.” He hooks his arms under Steve’s and heaves. He can’t do sitting around a toilet bowl on the floor, having a good heart-to-heart – whatever, they have _issues_ that needed sorting out. He gets. But not here, not now when Steve’s looking and smelling like roadkill. “Stand _up_ , Steve.” He pulls again, and almost dislocates his own shoulders. “Steve, work with me.” He tries again, but Steve refuses to budge from the floor. “…  I can’t do this alone.”

 

Only then does Steve drag himself to the tub. If Tony needs to guilt trip him into a state of semi-functionality, so be it.

 

He takes the shower head from the hook and holds it out in front of Steve.

 

“Here.” Sluggishly, he reaches out to take it from Tony. “OK. Hold still. Angle it down, Jesus, you’ll spray water all over me – let me turn it on.” And water it is that gushes from the million holes, at the right pressure, the right temperature. All of which slides over Steve’s still clothed legs and into the drain hole.

 

Tony sits back on his heel and waits, but Steve just cradles the shower head and stares at the little whirlpool by his toe.

 

“… I understand. I’ll uh, head out first, give you some privacy –”

 

“No,” Steve croaks suddenly, and he sits the shower head fully on the base of the tub. “I uh… it’s fine.”

 

He pinches the hem of his now well-soaked shirt and pulls. The fabric has clung so tightly to his body that it has to be forcefully pulled over his head, an act of futility, Tony notices, given how much Steve is starting to shake. And that momentary showcase of weakness quickly morphs into anger and frustration as he tugs and tugs at his shirt, but it just won’t come off.

 

“Let me,” Tony closes his hands over Steve’s. “Easy. Let me.”

 

When the shirt’s off, and the jeans’ off, Tony slowly lets out his breath he’s been holding since. Steve’s lower body is littered with angry bruises, marked by rough handling and… everything else. A long scratch or two runs down his flank. No skin breakage. No overt injuries. No dressings. Probably doesn’t even need to be medicated. Tony still stinks of sterile analgesia.

 

Timidly, he rests his hand on the small of Steve’s knee that’s propped up against the side of the tub. The first sob escapes those pale lips, and Tony reaffirms his hold. He spends the next fifteen minutes or so scrubbing at Steve’s body with sponges, because God, why did he ever leave in the first place?

 

Steve cries so openly as he loses himself under the stream of hot water. His tears mingle with suds, and he cups most of his face most of the time. Keeps it hidden from Tony, and Tony…

 

Can’t break down.

 

He washes Steve the best he could, himself still fully clothed and drenched to the bones because some boundaries are meant to be respected. He’s cleaned up pools of vomit and a heck of mess by the toilet in a span of sixteen hours, what’s a puddle of water by a tub, seriously?

 

He sprays water near Steve’s thighs, hoping that the water jet alone would suffice.

 

Some places he just can’t go.

 

When Steve closes his fingers around the shower head, Tony lets him, curious as hell what Steve’s going to do with it. Then he angles it to his crotch, and starts cleaning himself – and what’s left of his composure just fractures. He falls forward into Tony, and his face sinks into the crook Tony’s neck.

 

Tony will collect the pieces. He holds Steve firmly, wraps his arms around his back and stays.

 

Don’t know why he’d ever left.


	68. Chapter 68

Tony pushes coins into the slot, and a bottle of nicely chilled mineral water comes tumbling out. He checks if Steve is still sitting on the park bench – he is – and buys a Coke for himself. Back in the days when he was… _unaccountable_ to anybody, that is to say… single, when he’d run into a dead end, be it about work or personal issues because, damn, it’s a wonder how mankind hasn’t driven themselves to extinction yet – he’d take the car out for a ride.

 

A long ride.

 

If he’d exceeded his monthly quota for gas expenditure, he’d put on his running shoes, and run his rubble soles paper thin. Maybe even knocked back a _tokkuri_ or two of warm sake with Rhodey.

 

He walks back to Steve and passes him his bottle, then sings praises to the sucrose and caffeine in his Coke. He wants to harmonise with the hiss of escaping carbon dioxide from the can.

 

Steve is still struggling with his drink.

 

“Let me.” Tony sets his can on the bench and helps uncap Steve’s bottle. Then he passes it back, only for Steve to spill a good ten percent of the volume all over their feet as his trembling hand takes it.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“… You sure you don’t need the doctor?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

Sure Steve is. The very depiction of pink of health.

 

They’re sitting around in the backyard – a mini-garden, sort of – because he thinks some fresh air would do both of them some good. Frankly he just needed the space, because he’s had enough of the claustrophobia that is the bathroom, the sitting room, the warehouse. No walls, thank you. It’s summer midnight, so this all feels really nice, if it weren’t for a growing, unsettling need to fill up the silence with words.

 

But, they don’t come.

 

He drinks more Coke.

 

“How long have you known?” Steve asks slowly. He wets his lips, and presses on, “About Bucky, I mean. You know he reports to me. Did he tell you about us?”

 

Tony drains half his can and burps. That ought to buy him enough time because he has _zero clue_ what Steve is asking. To him, it sounds like an accusation, that he is now in the know of something he shouldn’t.

 

“I, uh…” Oh, God. Is he going to jail for obstruction of justice? He did rifle through Steve’s stuff, but that would mean _Steve’s_ obstructing justice, too because he’s about betrayed every syllable in the word “confidential” by bringing home Barnes’ logbook and folder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

He is _so_ going to jail for this.

 

Steve heaves a sigh, and caps his bottle. Then, he reaches into his pockets – here it comes, the handcuff, or God forbid, a taser – and pulls out a handful of loose papers. Each is crumpled to hell, but has been folded neatly into halves, and Steve carefully flattens them against his thigh. Wordlessly, he holds them out, and Tony takes them.

 

He recognises them. He doesn’t have to read them again, he has them almost memorised. But he does, because Steve doesn’t know he’s had Rhodey scan them, made copies of them. What Steve doesn’t know won’t kill him.

 

“Thank you,” Steve speaks again, still in the low, raspy voice that sounds so alien to Tony.

 

“For what?”

 

“For tomorrow.”

 

For saving Barnes.

 

“… We’ve come so far.”

 

“That,” Steve’s fingers sort of jerk a little, and Tony eyeballs the pull-outs from Barnes’ diary again. It didn’t register before, but now under the dim moonlight, he notices the measured slants in his g’s and y’s. How evenly proportionated his alphabets are. Tony’s own are like chicken scratch, unrestrained and wild. How odd.

 

“I’ve uh… you know, since everything’s going down tomorrow,” Steve takes a deep breath, “I owe you the truth. There’s so much that I needed to tell you, but… most of it is classified, I can’t…”

 

“Then, don’t. If it’s gonna land either or both of us in jail –”

 

“No.” He rubs at his eyes. “No. Let me do this.” He pauses, and pinches his nose. Tony shuffles the papers about and pretends to read the next page.

 

“What we do, it’s uh, difficult.” Steve grimaces. “Dangerous. For some of us, even more. Bucky has been at it for ten years and a half. For operatives working covertly that long, we have some uh, _mechanisms_ in place, to help them cope with the stress. For Bucky, we gave him a logbook. A diary for him to… be honest with himself. You can lose yourself to the madness after a while.

 

“On our side, we use these entries to gauge the operative’s state of mind. If we see red flags, we pull them out pronto.”

 

Tony squints at the page he’s at.

 

_Extraction. Please._

He’d seen this before, too.

 

“My predecessor – the previous Case Officer, Bucky’s original handler – recently passed. When I took over his portfolio, I realised…” and he swipes a thumb furiously at his eye, “who Bucky was. And I remembered what happened at the convention. I couldn’t…” He gasps, “Couldn’t even manage Page Two of the report. I wanted a reassignment. And then, I saw his diary.

 

“In there, I found the man I’d known as my brother. The same compassion, thoughtfulness. I saw some of that when he…” Steve cringes again, and steels himself. “And then, nothing. It feels so _easy_ to blame it all on him. And then, he spoke about a power shift in Hydra. Every week, his fears grew.

 

“People were getting suspicious. He’d had enough. He’d _done enough._ He wanted out, but Ross passed away. They gave him some replacement handlers but none of them stuck. No one _cared._ In his desperation, he saw his escape in _you._ ”

 

Tony feels a stab of panic right through his heart. “ _Me_?”

 

“You stuck around long enough to be noticeable. You spoke to certain people direct, made certain calls. That stood out. Bucky found you, and made you his mouthpiece on the topside.”

 

“Did he know about us?” he blurts out. “You, me. Together?”

 

Steve manages a weak chuckle, and shakes his head. “Funny world. I figure he’d have a heart attack if he ever saw me in person.”

 

“… You’ve _never_ met in person? Not yet?”

 

“Saturday was the first.”

 

“… Christ.”

 

“Anyway. I took over the case. When he admitted what he did – dragging you into this mess, I… for the first time, I was scared, Tony. I was… beyond pissed off, yes – I _told_ you to lay off the case, but I knew you wouldn’t listen and I thought it wouldn’t go so badly, but God, when I heard the words, I was _so scared._  

 

“He promised he’d stop talking to you. That drug sample he gave you? That was supposed to be last you ever heard of him.”

 

Tony suddenly feels so tired. “Then, Rumlow happened.”

 

“By then, we’d been out of touch for a while. We couldn’t re-establish contact, and you were going to see him. I can’t…” his shoulders shake again. “I took the chance. I can’t fix this, Tony. I don’t know how to do right by you – when Bucky is…” Then, dry eyes, surprisingly clear as day flicker to the wad of paper in Tony’s hand. “I keep them by my side to remind me that. He’s dying, Tony. I need to save him.”

 

Their last fight, huh?

 

“We’ll get him back.” But, he still needs to deliver Barnes’ message to Danvers. The clock’s ticking. There won’t be time for sitting on hands. This feels like the end of times. “I got to meet Danvers for a while. Barnes texted a time and location.” Steve nods. “You want to go back?”

 

He looks up at Tony, a wan smile on his lips. “… Can we?”


	69. Chapter 69

Tony has read somewhere about how adrenaline really screws up the body’s responses to stress and danger. Maybe he should blame his gung-ho-ness on this rascal of a hormone. He’s so jacked his heart is threatening to leap out of his chest, there’s an inexplicable pressure between his ears, he’s almost panting that more than once, Steve reaches over to close his hand over Tony’s knee, and shoots him a questioning look while Danvers is going through the plans. This response is _justified,_ dammit. He’s never held a gun in his life – but he did stare down the barrel enough times to remember the scent of gunpowder – never joined the police force, or the Army… the closest he gets is Boy Scouts. He has absolutely no business in this operation.

 

Yet, here he is, huddled between Steve and one of the six “clients” he’s supposed to present to Barnes. Fifteen minutes ago, this guy, whose biceps are as thick as his neck shook his hands and introduced himself as Matt. Then, he took the vacant seat next to Tony and did not speak for the rest of the duration. Danvers came over and shook his hands, too, and for Tony’s benefit, reintroduced him as Matt Murdock, one of the six operators from the Hostage Rescue Team, HRT, an elite Police Tactical Unit under the FBI.

 

This is it. This is them setting up the drawing board, and Tony…

 

Steve’s hand returns to his.

 

Tony hangs on to every word coming out of Danver’s mouth. It’s nothing elaborate, which he is infinitely grateful for. Get in, get out. Good thinking. There’s something surreal about the whole operation, that he finally, _finally_ feels it in his very core, that this is _real._ And for so many right reasons, Steve isn’t allowed to show his face or be anywhere close by.

 

Tony is glad. Steve _isn’t_ , either because Danvers is making decisions on his behalf, or because he wanted to be there for Barnes when it finally goes down. Tony isn’t sure. Whatever it is, Steve holds his tongue, and doesn’t interrupt the briefing.

 

“Mr Stark, here.”

 

Matt’s holding out a piece of paper to Tony. It says:

 

_Seven of us at the Garage. Make it worthwhile, Buck._

He turns to Danvers, and she nods at him. “Text that to Barnes.”

 

He does – fingers kind of unsure – but he does and he sends it. Matt claps him on the back once, and he leaves. Like a job well done. He just sealed his fate, that's what it is.

 

And then, it’s only him and Steve still glued to their chairs at the back of the conference room.

 

“Steve,” Tony tries to catch his gaze. “Steve, please.”

 

They have only now. Danvers is expecting him to suit up, because he’ll be outfitted with a bulletproof vest to be worn under his shirt. It almost sounds like they’re expecting some serious altercations and firepower involved. And adrenaline somehow blunts the gravity of the situation. So it’s not playing dress-the-doll with the HRT after all?

 

If this is the last few minutes on earth he has with Steve, he wants to make them count.

 

“This is… this feels wrong, Tony.”

 

“Well, if you’d told me that half a day earlier, it might make some difference,” he huffs nervously. His fingers are as cold as Steve’s.

 

“Will it?”

 

“… No. Not really. Listen,” he hears footsteps approaching. Maybe someone’s coming to get him. “We got these tough guys protecting us. We’re in good hands. We’ll be fine.”

 

Steve closes his mouth, and his jaws clench. He nods repeatedly, but Tony doesn’t think it means much.

 

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

 

They can’t both crash at the same time, can they? It’s a messed up, four-legged race that if they want to have a fighting chance at _ending_ this, at least one of them have to move forward. Eye on the ball, just keep moving. He must weather this so Steve could… so they both could… so _everyone_ could be saved.

 

Even Tony’s surprised by the depth of his benevolence. Hear ye, guardians of the Pearly Gates. He’s earned some serious nirvana creds to secure some happily-ever-after.

 

He kisses Steve on the forehead, and brushes away stray strands of hair.

 

“Tony, you gave too much.”

 

“Right back at you.”

 

And he’s gonna make that count, too.

 

He leaves Steve in the conference room and half-walks, half-runs to the unloading bay at the back of the complex. Danvers motions for him to get into the black Cadillac XTS parked closest to the exit. He climbs into the backseat, flanked by Matt and another who does not bother to furnish him with even a nickname. It’s a great car, by the way. Very new – he can smell the plastic off the seats.

 

And there’s a timer above his head, he hears the _tick, tick, tick_ as his heart beats to the anthem.

 

Too soon, the car slows down as it swerves through a gateway. It’s shady, their only source of illumination coming from the odd rows of lamp posts and their car’s headlight. The ceilings are high, and it’s disconcertingly spacious. Tony looks out of the window as they circle the grounds, following the tarmac in case Barnes is considerate enough to leave them sign posts.

 

And there they are at the centre of the yard, already cleared of vehicles. Nowhere to hide, nothing nearby to cast a speck of shadow. From where he still sits, Tony sees Barnes standing before twenty-four men, dark and dangerous, his hands clasped calmly before him.

 

“Mr Stark? You OK?” The edge of Matt’s lips twitch.

 

Their designated driver kills the engine. All is silent, save for the harsh breath he’s drawing.


	70. Chapter 70

Despite the cover that darkness provides, Tony still feels Barnes’ eyes training on him, pinning him to the leather seat. It takes Matt’s elbow digging him in the ribs that he shakes himself out of it, and recollection of Danvers’ cool, clinical instructions - _get in, get out_ - reverberates in the deep recesses of his mind.

 

“Let’s go,” Matt growls into his ear, and his legs move on their own accord, following Matt out of the car.

 

Barnes surveys them all, one by one, lingering perhaps too long over their pockets and lapels. Tony takes the lead, and offers Hydra a small smile.

 

“Hey, Bucky,” he extends a hand, and Barnes take it.

 

Hands as cold as ice.

 

“I thought I’d lost you after what happened last week. It’s good to see you tonight. This all wouldn’t have happened otherwise.” A muscle in his temple twitches. “I was ready to lop off some heads for it.” And a dark figure – head tilted low – standing to Barnes’ right fidgets. “Anyway… this is good. I don’t know what’s gotten into our chemists, but they cooked up the largest batch in history. Got more to sell than you can ever hope to smoke.”

 

“Don’t underestimate these gentlemen,” Tony gestures to the men behind him. “Their worth combined is worth ten of yours.”

 

“I don’t doubt it. Rumlow, bring the case.”

 

Something inside Tony shrivels at the sound of the name, and the same figure on Barnes’ right steps forward, a black suitcase in tow. He has on a pair of reading glasses and a headset, an allusion of sophistication and learnedness that Tony finds peculiar on him. Rumlow spares him a withering glare, but says nothing.

 

“This is one case,” he addresses Matt, who has come forward to hover behind Tony. “We have three more.”

 

“Great,” Matt nods, and beckons to the rest to come hither. “I was thinking of buying one whole case myself.”

 

“That’s a little aggressive, don’t you think?”

 

“They have three more! You can share.”

 

“I didn’t trade in the Tower downtown to _share_ a case with others. I want one for myself!”

 

Tony can’t seem to look away from Barnes. His front and centre, his peripheral is all Barnes, and cold sweat begins to bead near his hairline. As the cacophony of six HRT bickering among themselves washes over him, he licks his bottom lip, and his hand quakes that he shoves it right into his pocket.

 

“Gentlemen,” he chastises, and is immensely relieved that he hasn’t gone Mickey-Mouse-squeaky. “Chop chop. We’re not auctioning the stuff, it's cash-and-carry, so if you have the money, you get the case. What’s the going rate these days, Bucky?”

 

Barnes’ steely eyes pierce through him. “It hasn’t changed.”

 

“Great!” And Tony twirls around, his arms outstretched. Another strike of chillness courses through him as he exposes his back to twenty-four thugs. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t shoot –

 

“I was hoping for a discount, actually. Gentlemen, show ‘em your money. Get this done quick enough, I may still be in time for Downtown Abbey.”

 

Three of the HRTs – the ones that rode in the other Cadillac – wheel two large travel luggage and one duffel bag to Barnes’ feet. Tony’s face stretches even tighter, and he’s so afraid Rumlow would seize him around the collar and unload a whole magazine into his face. There’s nothing natural in the way he’s standing, or vehemently avoiding eye contact with the bags. They’re all loaded, in more ways than one. Two hours ago, he saw Matt bury Glock 22s, stun grenades and MP5s under heaps of marked bills.

 

Rumlow points at Matt, his crowfeet crinkling – obviously pleased with how the transaction is going so far – and says, “Let’s see how much you have in there.”

 

Tony turns to Barnes again, who’s now fixated on the Garage’s ceilings and the distant roads. His shoulders are hunched, his knees bent, his fingers twitching by his side. As Matt unzips the duffel bag, Tony realises he’s frozen to the ground, that if a bullet goes off, he doesn’t think he can run.

 

“Ah, that’s what I’m talking about!” Rumlow’s guffaws tear into the night, and Matt’s serenade them. “Bring out the rest of the cases, boys!”

 

Then, the lights go off, from the lamp posts and the headlights of the Cadillacs they came in with. Gunshots, in quick succession – and the smell of something burnt and coppery taint the night. A pair of arms wrap around Tony’s chest and _heaves,_ and he screams, fingers scrabbling at them. He is reeled backward, his legs dragging uselessly on the tarmac.

 

“No! Please, no –”

 

“Mr Stark! I got ya!”

 

“God, no –”

 

He’s shoved headfirst into a vehicle. He smells rubber under him, and a door closes at his feet. The engine revs and growls around him, and he’s moving – the din fading, and the ground jostles as it carries him along.

 

“Matt? Anybody?”

 

He’s in the back of the van, and his face is damp with sweat, tears and spit – but not a single scratch on his body. His bulletproof vest is weightless on him, and he clambers to his knees.

 

“Mr Stark, it’s OK, it’s over.”

 

A pair of deeply set, green eyes are watching him from the rear-view mirror. And for the life of him, he can’t remember if he’s ever seen the driver from the briefing, and he doesn’t think he recognises the road they are on –

 

“Easy. Deep breath. We’re heading back to Control. Look,” he frees one hand from the steering wheel to dig in his pocket. “We’re good?”

 

An ID hanging from a lanyard is pressed against his chest, and Tony recognises the ATF emblem. There’s too much moisture in his eyes that he can’t read the name, so he doesn’t address the driver beyond Officer. This is limbo, where time as he knows it feels foreign. Strange. Memories of before - talking, laughing, shootings - ended before they registered. Just the two of them in the van. None of the HRTs are on this ride. No Barnes, either.

 

And then, they're parked at the porch of the ATF field office. He sees Steve’s dorm from here.

 

It’s… over?


	71. Chapter 71

At first, there’s standstill silence. When the door slides open –

 

“Mr Stark, are you hurt –”

 

“We’re at the ATF compound. You’re safe now.”

 

“Do you remember what –”

 

Damn it.

 

“We can take him down to the rec room. We have space there – the paramedics are on their way –”

 

“But, we’re gonna need all the help we can get at the Garage and –”

 

Where’s Steve?

 

Someone is clamping down on his biceps like a vice, and Tony starts. In the blur of events, someone has loaded him into a wheelchair, and a heavy shock blanket drapes over his shoulder. Voices, questions that he cannot make sense of wrap around him, and he sees not a familiar face. That makes him anxious.

 

“Mr Stark?”

 

He combs through his hair frantically with numb fingers. As they wheel him through the door, it gets brighter that it hurts, and he winces at the echoes of his name. He’s been cloaked in the dark for so long his eyes need some adjusting to, and the buzz of… _everything…_ so confusing. “What happened?”

 

“I don’t know, Sir,” comes his attendant’s informative reply. “You’ll be fine, I’ll give you a look over and attend to any –”

 

“No, I’m not – how did it go? Did it work?” Tony twists around and almost upsets the wheelchair. “Did it _work?_ Where’s Barnes? Where’s the others?”

 

“Sir, calm down –”

 

“Danvers.” He leaps to his feet, and traipses down the hallway. Whitish fog frames his vision, yet he forges on. “She’ll know. _I need to know_.”

 

“Sedatives!”

 

Tony runs. They’re closing in.

 

“No, leave me alone!”

 

“Hold him down!”

 

“ _Jesus Christ_ –”

 

“Let me go!” It’s turbulent – faces he can’t identify, orders he can’t understand. There’s a crash down the hallway, like a door exploded, and more voices, so _vicious_ –

 

“What are you _doing_? Let him go! Tony!”

 

“Stop – _help_ –”

 

He’s pressed up against the wall, surrounded by people twice his height and weight in muscles. The more he struggles, the harder they come down on him, and he starts throwing out _punches._ One actually connects, and he regrets it, especially when that very arm is arrested, and his sleeve gets rolled up –

 

“Please –”

 

“Get _off_ him!”

 

Someone yelps – not Tony – and there’s a gush of fresh air as the barricade of aggressively concerned personnel got pulled off their feet. He slides to the ground, his knees giving out under his weight and he sees jeans-clad legs, and shoes – he knows those shoes – planting themselves firmly before him.

 

“Special Agent Steve Rogers. What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Sir, the witness is clearly in distress. We’re just following protocols, before he can do more harm.”

 

“Are you serious – hey, back off. And put that syringe down, or I’ll have you reported.”

 

Tony thinks he’s going to throw up. He lifts his head, vision still bleary from adrenaline crash – that’s the term. That’s what Steve used to call it.

 

“He’s my friend. Let me talk to him. Where did you say you’re taking him?”

 

“The rec room, Sir. We’ve set up an outpatient treatment room, so –”

 

“Great, thanks. We’ll be there.”

 

“But, Sir –”

 

“I said, _we’ll be there_.”

 

“… Yes, Sir.”

 

Steve, Steve, Steve… standing strong and tall. He thought he won’t ever see it again, that was so long time ago. He thought, maybe Steve has forgotten _how_ to. Or maybe Steve has never lost it. _He did_. He didn’t trust Steve enough, to be strong and tall. And now he thrives on Steve’s… air of contemplative wisdom that’s so infectious it makes him feel so damn _sure_ about things being right, even when they’re not.

 

“Tony?”

 

He blinks furiously against the tears welling in his eyes, and stares into Steve’s clear ones. There’s a mild pinch between the brows, and Steve’s hands rise to cup him under his ears, reassuring and steadfast. A thumb grazes a small spot on the side of his neck, his collar, and Steve’s throat bobs.

 

Is something wrong?

 

“Tony, are you injured?”

 

“No,” he shakes his head. He remembers a flash of white, and a loud pop. And someone’s breath hitched, stolen right in front of him. “Not me.”

 

“What do you mean –”

 

“… Shot, Steve.”

 

Steve’s features twist. “OK, stay here, I’m getting the medic –”

 

“No, I’m fine,” his shaking hand shoots up to rein Steve in. “Please stay.”

 

“… Whose blood is your shirt stained with? Is it yours?”

 

“Not mine.” He squeezes his eyes again. He can’t remember much, just sparks and a lingering burnt smell hanging between Barnes and him –

 

“Barnes.” Tony grips Steve by the elbows. “He was shot. He fell, and someone pulled me back – I don’t know –”

 

“It’s not your fault, Tony. It’s OK.”

 

“It’s not…” He realises there’s an uncomfortable stretch in his neck when he tries to move. Like a paste slathered over his throat, and it dries up and cakes. Whatever tears that threaten to fall from his lashes, fall, and he palms his collarbone. His finger pads come back clean, but so much time has passed, of course everything has coagulated –

 

“Oh… oh no…”

 

He looks up from Steve’s shoulders and catches his reflection in the window across the hallway. Against the pitch of night, he sees a splatter that runs down the side of his ear.

 

All of these… are all of these Barnes’?

 

“It’s OK, Tony,” Steve grips him tighter about the shoulders. “It’s OK.”


	72. Chapter 72

“How long since we left, Steve?”

 

“… An hour half.”

 

That’s a long while to be gone.

 

“So? How did it go?” He shakes Steve a little, pressing him for answers. No one else would tell him anything. “Did it work?”

 

“I don’t know. I’m not cleared to stay with Control.”

 

So, Steve doesn’t know? Maybe Steve wants intel just as much as he does.

 

“That’s why you come to me?” Tony hears himself speak, his voice hollow, and Steve snaps to look at him again, the hurt obvious in his features. “You wanna know what happened to Barnes?”

 

Just look at the facts. They’ve been gone for an hour half, he looks like a male Bloody Mary, and the only one from the ops who has returned to base – of course Steve would want to meet with him.

 

“I came for you.” There’s an edge to the way Steve says it, but he doesn’t push it. His frame tenses, and he shakes his head. “Rec room, right?” Steve forces a smile. That’s when Tony crumble on the inside. “Come on.”

 

Before Tony can decide on either taking Steve’s hand or playing up his macho and ignores it, another door swings open at the end of the hallway. Going by the multitude of rubber soles stomping on polished tiles, it sounds like a whole _battalion_ is marching down their way. Steve quickly hooks his arm under Tony’s and pulls, supporting the bulk of his weight just when Danvers turns the corner and spots them. Her poker face is good – Tony can’t even begin to describe the first thing going on in her mind, but that mask cracks a little when she gives him a once over as she approaches.

 

He sees on her, a sliver of regret. Perhaps.

 

“Rogers, Stark.”

 

Steve worms his free hand around Tony’s waist. He’s slipping sideways, he doesn’t even notice it. Danvers looks more pointedly at him. “Do you need the hospital? We have an ambulance on-standby.”

 

“No, thank you.” Tony wheezes, and straightens himself up the best he can when wedged between the wall and Steve. “Did it work? Did you get Barnes?”

 

Just like that, the poker face comes back. Tony would’ve seized her by the shoulders, rock her back and forth until the truth rattles out of her because God, what is _up_ with the people around here? Just a freaking “yes” or “no” is all he’s looking for!

 

“You will be debriefed by the lead operator at the first of opportunity. I’m needed at the hospital, and you’re to remain in this complex until further notice. Is that clear, Mr Stark?”

 

“I _need_ to know, please –”

 

Just a goddam “yes” or “no”!

 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, gentler, if anything. “You’ll have to wait for the debriefing.”

 

Tony curses the back of her as she proceeds to the exit. He didn’t almost-die for the cold shoulder. He’s the linchpin of the entire operation, so what makes them think he’s not cleared for some information? Think he’s too fragile, unworthy to handle the truth?

 

If they recover Barnes in a body bag, yeah. Yeah, maybe he _will_ lose his mind a bit.

 

“Tony, calm down –”

 

“Don’t tell _me_ to calm the fuck down! Let go!”

 

“You’re still reacting! Jesus _Christ_ , just wait for the debrief –”

 

“You can pretend _not_ to care all you want. I do, all right?” Then, Tony pries Steve’s fingers from his arms, just pries, and Steve lets go. He yanks at his shock blanket from his shoulders and chucks it to the floor. “I do!”

 

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Even Steve’s temper is starting to flare. _Good_. Because Tony is _so done_ putting up with his pretence – his cold, stoic, undisturbed façade. Either this doesn’t matter enough, or it matters too much. “I’m not letting you do this anymore. Get up. We’re going to the rec room.”

 

“I don’t get you, Steve! You’re the one going above and beyond limits and reasons to keep him safe! _I risked it all so we could bring him back!_ ”

 

“Oh, are you saying you’re doing this for me, now?”

 

“Damn well I am!”

 

“God, _Tony_ – you’re _still_ deciding how I’m supposed to live my life.”

 

“After what Barnes did to you –”

 

“I know what he did to me!” Steve snaps. “I was there the whole time. Or did it slip your mind?” He takes two steps back, and for a split second, Tony expects Steve to take a cheap swing at him. He probably deserves that. “What do you want to hear me say, huh? That there were nights when I woke up next to you, I thought you were _him_ and I’d to go out for a bit, ‘cause it scared the _crap_ out of me? When I fucked you, I felt him? When you called my name, I heard _him_? Is that it – is that what you wanna hear? I was fine, Tony. I really was. And that’s _my call_ to make, not yours!”

 

Steve retreats one step at a time, further and further from Tony until he slumps against the opposite wall, and a short sob escapes his lips.

 

“I _have_ moved on, Tony. I meant every word I said about building something more between us. This whole thing – this… mess, it shouldn’t have to be so complicated, but there are things larger than us. You know this. You just can’t get past the fact that it’s Barnes we’re sticking our necks out for. Believe me, if it weren’t Barnes, if it were Matt, or Danvers, I’d do the same. That’s never gonna change.” Steve sucks in air, and it sounds congested with repressed tears and snot. He chuckles, void of mirth, “If we can’t work past this, I don’t know how else to move forward, Tony.”


	73. Chapter 73

It’s a success. The operation is a success, a huge one, and when those words tumble out of Matt’s mouth, Tony’s own hangs so low his chin scrapes the floor. Matt thumps his back with that giant hand of his, and assures him that everything went swimmingly, just the way Danvers planned it. Tony half-laughs, half-almost-cries with relief. He turns to the chair next to him – the one Steve occupied just two seconds ago before Matt kicked him out of the rec room on the pretext of Steve looking like a zombie, but nothing a good cup of coffee wouldn’t fix.

 

Which doesn’t make a lick of sense to Tony.

 

“Steve is the case officer in-charge of Hydra, isn’t he? He’s Barnes’ –” he quickly feigns a sneeze. Idiot. _So close._ Not one soul in this building must know that some investigative journalist has his paw on Barnes’ confidential files. He’s made it this far. Don’t go full-on retard and trip this up. Not now.

 

“I mean, Steve is Barnes’… old friend.” Tony scratches his nose some more. “They go way back to the Army.”

 

“… Your point being?”

 

“So, that makes Steve invested in this case, right? In more ways than one. You can’t just exclude him from all this, because – what, because of what happened to him in the warehouse?”

 

“Mr Stark,” Matt’s voice drops, and it now drips with cold indifference. “Whether Agent Rogers is deemed fit for work or not is up to his superiors to decide. You’re our _guest_ in this compound, and instead of worrying about Rogers’ right to intel or not,” he folds his arms on the table, “It’s a crime against public justice to intentionally omit information of a known offence. Might want to appreciate the fact that you’re not yet cuffed to your chair. Them federal agents can get really creative with their charges.”

 

“… Are you threatening me?”

 

“I’m _advising_ you to play within the system, a system that you, as an outsider, aren’t familiar with.”

 

Unbelievable. Tony’s fingers are clamped tightly over his knees. “That’s cowardice.”

 

“No,” and Matt’s lips quirk somewhat. “That’s survival.” With that, Matt leans into his chair, and shuffles the thin stack of documents before him.

 

“As lead operator, I was instructed to debrief you now. Danvers wants it ASAP. But, I see you’re still somewhat affected by recent affairs. So, how about this?” Matt scoots his chair closer to Tony, and Tony twitches. “I’m not heartless. I understand, it’s shaken you up. It’s normal. I’ll explain it to Danvers, buy you some time, huh? You come back in a couple of days to do the debriefing properly. Either Danvers herself or one of my colleagues will help you out.”

 

“… Thanks. If we’re done here –”

 

“Don’t you want to know the blow-by-blow?”

 

Tony’s eyes light up. Matt raps his knuckles eagerly on the table, and pulls out a loose piece of paper from his stack.

 

“As soon as the money exchanged hands, we took out the lights first, to give ourselves cover. I dragged you out, just in time before the bullets started flying. We had the place staked out a few hours beforehand, did some preparations… which accounted for the successful arrest of Hydra, recovery of the drugs, and our primary target, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Three men on our side got injured. Nothing life-threatening, but we’re keeping them in the hospital just in case. At least two from Hydra are still in ICU. I wish them a speedy recovery,” Matt scoffs and refastens a paperclip on his papers. “Anyway. We have forensics searching the grounds, and SPD on the perimeter. All in all, what I call a good day, Mr Stark.” He stands up, and offers his hand to Tony. “You did us a huge favour there. Thank you.”

 

“… What about Barnes?”

 

Matt’s smile doesn’t falter. “What about him?”

 

“Is he one of the two in ICU?”

 

“… No.” Then, he looks shiftily above his shoulder, and checks the opposite corner of the rec room. Satisfied with whatever it is he’s checking for, he leans in, and whispers, “Barnes’ fine. He tanked quite a spray, so thank God for that expensive body armour he had on, or I’ll be reading you his autopsy report instead.”

 

“So, he’s fine, then. Can I see him?”

 

Matt chuckles lightly. “Right. Might want to dust that old lamp a bit. Make a wish. Only a Genie can help you with that.”

 

“I _need_ to speak with him. What should I do – who should I ask –”

 

Matt’s eyes roam the room again. “Danvers is down at the hospital. Mercy,” he adds quickly, and out of the blue he reels Tony in for a bear hug. “Fifteen minutes’ drive from here. Ask her nicely, maybe she’ll let you. Don’t piss her off any more than she already is, word to the wise.” Tony catches a whiff of cigarrete and tar on Matt’s collar – Kevlar, he thinks – and nods into his shoulder.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Right-o. A pleasure working with you, Mr Stark.”

 

He passes by Steve at the door, and Tony watches them exchange a brief one-armed hug before Matt disappears completely from view. He expects Steve to come in, but he stays where he is, loitering awkwardly by the door frame, not quite knowing what to say.

 

Tony does, though. “Mercy.”

 

Steve’s eyes snap to his, and confusion spreads across his face.

 

“The hospital, I mean. That’s where they’re holding Barnes.”

 

Steve nods, and gets very interested in his shoes. “What about it?”

 

“I wanna talk to him.”

 

“He’s likely held under maximum lockdown.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Tony has nothing left to hold on to but his tunnel vision for answers. Don’t deny him that. He walks out the door, deliberately avoiding contact with Steve, when Steve’s hand darts out to close around his elbow. “Danvers’ orders. You’re not allowed to leave the complex.”

 

“Sure. That’s why you’re here, right? Make sure I follow orders.”

 

“Why do you have to make this so difficult? What is it that you want from me?”

 

Nothing. And everything.

 

“Fine.” Tony jerks himself free from Steve, and stalks away in the opposite direction.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“My room. That not allowed, too?”

 

He rounds the corner and almost breaks his nose against the familiar ash and tobacco-scented Kevlar. Christ. Isn’t Matt gone already?

 

“You OK?”

 

“Yeah.” Out of the pan, into the fire, huh? After all of Matt’s friendly advices, a cheery greeting sounds ever more ominous. Ignoring the burn of Steve’s glare at the back of his head, he says hurriedly, “I gotta go. See you around, Matt.”

 

“Oh, no, I’ve good news, man. Beyond good. _Terrific_ news. Danvers just called Control. You, and,” Matt averts his gaze to Steve, and he nods, “Agent Rogers. Barnes asks to meet.”

 

Without thinking, Tony turns to Steve, their look of bewilderment mirroring each other.

 

“Tomorrow, fifteen forty-five. Danvers thinks it’s a good idea for everyone to catch some sleep.” He raises a hand at Steve, and gives it a half-wave. “Best thing I heard today. See ya tomorrow.”

 

Even luck is on his side for once. He doesn’t have to break anymore rules to get to Barnes – already he was formulating something devious that involved sneaking out of the complex at some unearthly hour and taking a cab down to Mercy. He needs… he needs his notebook. He needs to arrange his thoughts, all the questions marinating in his skull for the longest of time. Hydra’s clientele, SB909, Alchemax –

 

The accursed convention in 2012, Steve’s unlawful restraint for two weeks, Stane, the warehouse –

 

Tony blinks back the tears – more, stupid tears – and takes off.


	74. Chapter 74

This is it. This is… the culmination of everything holy and not. This is what he’s been gearing towards ever since Barnes slipped him that call card in his back pocket –no, way before that. Ever since _Steve’s photos_ from the convention was gifted to him.

 

This is it.

 

He has played this scene over and over in his head for the longest of time. He calls it his sweet victory. He imagines his name on the headline. Rhodey takes him to a downtown _omakase._ And finally, he earns the freedom to choose his assignment – whatever topic he deems worthy of investigating – his call.

 

If this were winning, another one will completely undo him.

 

“Tony?” Steve calls him softly, himself standing a respectable distance away. They came to Mercy GH together, Steve manning the wheels, but they spent all fifteen minutes of it subdued. Steve brought with him a navy-blue satchel that Tony has never seen before, but it has the ATF insignia embossed on the front pocket. He helped Steve load that into the backseat, and it had some weight to it. Curious as he was, he did not ask what Steve had packed inside.

 

That was the first time Steve look unhappy at Tony’s voluntary silence.

 

Regardless, here they are at the end of things. The door knob is right _here_ , and all it takes is a quick twist and push. The ward itself is guarded by two heavily armed personnel. Steve flashes his ID, to which they nod and mumble something like, “Half an hour, Sir.”

 

What will he achieve in half an hour? So many questions, so much… rage, confusion –

 

“Tony, you don’t have to do this, if you’re not ready.”

 

“No, it’s… I’m OK.” Grow a pair already… “Shall we?”

 

This is it.  

 

He knocks twice, and pushes the door open. He takes his first two steps into what looks like a modestly furnished single-bedded ward. The wall is painted baby blue. Easy on the eyes. It’s not difficult to miss the sole occupant who’s half-reclining in his bed – Barnes dressed up in a polka dotted white hospital gown, tubes snaking from his wrist. By the time Tony finds the courage to look at him in the eye, Barnes already has his on them – on Steve, mostly.

 

Steve, who is still frozen by the door.

 

Angling his body so Barnes wouldn’t see him brushing Steve’s fingers, he mutters under his breath, “You can wait outside. I can handle this.”

 

“… OK.” Steve pulls his hand away, and lifts the satchel from his shoulder. “I’ll uh, wait outside. Just need to do this.”

 

He strides past Tony, the most valiant show of confidence in the long-suffering series of fear and withdrawal whenever the subject matter “Bucky” is brought up. The bed creaks, and Barnes scoots sideways, _away_ from the direction Steve is approaching. “Steve, stop –”

 

Steve _does_ stop. He stills by the overbed table.

 

“It’s me, Bucky. I won’t… OK, all right.” Barnes leans deeper into the raised mattress supporting his upper body. All the furniture between them doesn’t seem to matter. “I want to return you this.” Steve makes a show of unloading the satchel on the table. He arranges it to make sure the ATF emblem faces Barnes, and Tony heaves a silent sigh by the door. He thinks he knows now what the bag contains. “About time you hold on to this yourself.”

 

Barnes lets out a wet choke, and Tony looks up. Steve has produced a palm-sized card hanging from a lanyard – also as navy-blue as the satchel, and the full name of ATF sewn into it – and is holding it out for Barnes to take. It’s the same, boring staff ID Steve wears around his neck at work – the first thing Tony usually rips of if they decide to have a quickie before dinner. Shaky hands reach out for it, and Steve leans in, the edge of the overbed table gently pressing into his stomach.

 

“Officer James Barnes, welcome back.” He sets the card on Barnes’ faced-up palm.

 

“Oh God,” the mattress creaks some more as Barnes crumple into himself. “It’s really over, isn’t it? Huh, Steve? I’m out?”

 

“It’s over, Buck.” Barnes’s shoulders begin to shake, his face buried in his hands, still cupping his card. “You’re back with us. For good. I’m going through the paperwork, you won’t believe how much you’ve accumulated,” Steve chuckles nervously. “We’re arranging your safe exit. But, don’t worry about that,” he adds quickly, and raps the table once with his knuckles. “You rest up. That’s the only thing you should care about. I’ll take care of everything else, OK?”

 

Steve turns to the door –

 

“Steve, wait – I – God, I can’t… forgive myself. When I… you…”

 

“… Later, Buck.”

 

Tony doesn’t want to be the third pair of eyes and ears. Not again, not anymore. Maybe he should leave.

 

“I’ll come back later. Haven’t had my coffee,” Steve turns away from the bed. “Tony will keep you company.”

 

And he disappears from the room before Tony can say another word. Heavy footsteps soon graduate into a run, and Barnes doesn’t need to know that. So, Tony nudges the door to a close with his toes, and steps lightly to the plastic chair beside the bed.

 

Barnes seems to have taken a fancy to the lanyard. Long, jittery fingers twirl around the string. Hesitance. Maybe, a part of him wants to slip that on, and the other part of him thinks that’s such a cheesy, desperate display of… of belonging?

 

“You know,” Barnes voice is cracked. Tony initiates a guerrilla hunt for water. “They made it compulsory for new recruits to wear this whenever we were in the complex. I kept forgetting mine, and uh, this Special Agent who looked like he got a cork stuck someplace kept threatening to kick me back to IOIBT.” He spares Tony a fleeting, wan smile, and stows the ID under his pillow. “Never knew how much I would miss the damn thing. Just plastic.”

 

“It’s who you are.”

 

“… I almost forgot.”


	75. Chapter 75

They don’t serve water in a jug. Come to think of it, the entire ward looks like it’s made of LEGO Duplo. Blunt edges, children-friendly plastic all around. No metal, no glass. Even the chair Tony’s sitting on is a one-piece PVC. Barnes coughs lightly into his fist, and Tony scours, really scours the place for water.

 

“Down here,” Bucky points at the bedside table, and Tony stoops to open the last drawer. There are two stacks of mineral water packaged in thin, plastic cups. Sans straws.

 

“What the…” He peels the plastic lid off, swears a bit when the content inevitably spills over his lap. He sets it on the table, and watches Barnes take it with even shakier hands, dousing them both with water. There’s probably more of that on the floor than in the cup.

 

“Let me –”

 

“No. I can manage.” Stubborn ass, this one. “Sorry ‘bout that. Danvers’ orders. No straws, no sharps, nothing I can uh, repurpose into weapons.”

 

That sets off all kinds of alarm bells in Tony’s head.

 

“How did you know I was undercover? I’m betting Steve didn’t just tell you.”

 

“No. He uh…” Pretty sure what he did – and what Steve did, bringing back confidential documents to the dorm – is illegal. He helps himself to some water. Wet his whistle. There’ll be loads of spilling beans around here, so might as well. “He keeps some pages of your diary at home. I found them. Nothing conclusive, but enough for me to get the picture.”

 

Barnes smirks into his cup. “Bet Steve didn’t leave ‘em lying around for your convenience, either.”

 

“… No.”

 

“Right. You’re a wily one, Mr Stark. You and I might share more in common than we think.”

 

“I’m _nothing_ like you, Barnes.”

 

He pulls the cup from his lips, and rubs at his eyes. “No,” he agrees quietly. “No. I’m… of course.”

 

Tony crumples his emptied one and chucks it into a bright yellow thrash can behind him. Something tells him if Danvers could have her way, she would stick Barnes into a straightjacket and lock him up in a padded room, because this ward feels more like a _compromise_ than goodwill.

 

“Why me? Four months ago, you jumped me in the alley. You spoke about Steve. Is that why you chose me, because I knew Steve?”

 

“No. Not really. You got the order backward, by the way.” Barnes eyes were red-rimmed when they bore into Tony’s. “You were nosing around Hydra business. That’s stupid, I’ll tell you that, but if you didn’t, we wouldn’t be here, so there’s that.”

 

Tony’s fist clenches in his lap. “And Steve _wouldn’t_ have to suffer.”

 

“… Yeah.”

 

Then, Barnes go silent again. He snakes his good hand under his pillow, no doubt to fiddle with the card he stowed there. Tony admits – his bad. These digressions _have_ to stop, and that means pulling himself together, if only to get to the bottom of the shit pile.

 

“Why me?” he repeats.

 

“… Do you remember the first time we met? No, you didn’t know me then. But I did. You were at a corner table with Obadiah Stane at the coffee house. That was,” he stutters, and he pulls out the lanyard into plain view. “A pretty bad day you happened to show up on. SPD had been staking out the area for a week. For what, I wasn’t sure. But Steve was there, and a couple others from the org recognised him. I couldn’t… couldn’t tell him to go away. When SPD overstayed their welcome, it got the boys nervous. I had to do something, so I drugged your coffee.”

 

“Why? To get back at Steve?”

 

Barnes blinks in confusion. “I didn’t know you knew Steve, then. No. I drugged you, because you were talking to Stane. That was it.”

 

“What’s so special about Stane? A personal vendetta?”

 

“… In a way.” He runs his thumb lovingly along the rounded edge of his card. “Stane frequently conducts his business on our premise, and he has a reputation for committing… indecent behaviour in public. It’s not something the org wants to get entangled with. So, one stone, two birds. We pinned your drugging on Stane, so we could get rid of him _and_ the SPD. I hoped the cops would leave after Stane’s arrest.”

 

“They had to let Stane go. There was no proof.”

 

“I know. The cops never showed up after that. That was all I cared about. But it didn’t change the fact that SPD was already closing in on us. Father was worried that… that this would put the org in a very bad spot. If news got out, you’d think competitors would be looking forward to displacing us – no, _Hydra’s_ standing in this business.” His fingers tremble some more. Tony chews the insides of his cheeks, and waits. “So, Father thought of diversifying their portfolio a bit. He ordered those firearms fellas to double their activities. Too bad, they had idiots in-charge, so it was easy for ATF to bust their operations. We kept winning… and then, Rumlow got suspicious.” Barnes looks up from his lap and studies Tony’s features. There’s something else in his expression, something Tony can’t quite pin down. “Sometime later, Rumlow saw an opening. He ordered a hit on you in some alley. I don’t know the details, I heard one of the boys talking about it. Rumlow pinned it on Stane, said that I was behind this again. I had precedents, after all. He told Father how reckless I was in my conduct, how it was my fault that the cops were paying attention to the org again.”

 

Tony’s blood chills at this specific recollection. That’s where this madness all started.

 

“It almost worked, by the way. Father was displeased… and I was…” he swallows thickly. “I was _scared_.”


	76. Chapter 76

“So, it wasn’t you? The photos – _Steve’s photos –_ they weren’t from you?”

 

“… What photos?”

 

“God, these – shit, I don’t – I don’t have them with me. _Steve’s photos._ His torture in _your fucking hands._ After the 2012 convention, you… you took him, and you know what you and your pals did to him!”

 

“I –”

 

“Don’t lie to me, Barnes! You recorded them, and you, Rumlow, whatever – used them to _threaten_ me, so I’d back off from the investigation. That’s what it is, right?”

 

Barnes’ doing it again. His eyes glaze over, and his tears spill over his cheeks. “No, no I swear I didn’t. I wouldn’t!”

 

“Well, it’s fine, because you didn’t scare me away. I swore, by hook or by crook I’d nail your ass on the wall and take down your family with you, or die trying. Glad it all worked out in the end, huh?”

 

“I… I wouldn’t do that –”

 

“Say what you will. What you did to Steve in 2012? I’ll never forgive you. I’ll never _forget._ ”

 

“I…” Barnes is sobbing fully into his forearm, and he draws his knees up to his chest. “God, all these years… I was so close… what I did to Steve… I _betrayed_ him, I did –”

 

“Why?” Tony leans closer to the bed. Is this another pretence? A monkey charade to appeal to his _sympathy,_ his good side – “Why did you hurt Steve?”

 

“They’d kill him. They wanted to kill him. Rumlow and his fucking crusade… they were gonna string him up and I don’t – I had to do something. I took him, branded him so they’d leave him alone, and made him… made him mine. In the most perverse ways, so I could keep him safe. But, they wanted a show. And another. And another… I was just promoted into the inner circle, and I couldn’t risk blowing up my cover. So, I did it. I hurt Steve.

 

“One night, it got… bad. It went on for what felt like forever. I carried him to my apartment. I washed him. Fixed him up the best I could. He was lost. All shelled up, and I couldn’t bear it. I was so close to… to give it all up. To hell with the operation, right? And Steve, that punk, he… I was holding him, he was crashing. It happens – sometimes, in the Army, after a… then, he grabbed me, and he looked at me, and said, ‘It’s gonna be OK’. I don’t understand – he couldn’t have known who I was. I don’t know if he was sayin’ it to himself, or to me, or to _us?_

 

“That was the one thing that kept me going. Steve reminded me of what I was fighting for. That there was always something bigger than us, and it made the pain worth it.

 

“Until it didn’t. I was losing myself, until someone in the ATF got this genius idea of giving me a diary. Said I could be myself here. Nobody would judge what I think, what I say, what I do.”

 

“You know,” Tony says before he can stop himself, “Steve is… _extraordinary_ in that sense. He bounced back after that. Went to work, lived life, and then landed this cool gig at the ATF. Not bad, huh? He keeps your diary with him to remind himself of you, and your sufferings. He’s scared out of his wits when he’s assigned to you, but he,” Tony exhales generously, and crosses his leg over a knee, “he and his stupidly big heart decides that you deserve to be saved. And he did the best he could.”

 

“… I don’t deserve it.”

 

“Maybe you don’t.” Barnes wipes away his tears with his wrist. “But he _saved you_. It has to count for something.”

 

“Ten years in, I finally asked Ross for extraction. He assured me that the option was on the table, and I was getting out. Then, he passed. The other handlers assigned to me didn’t stay for more than two months. They said that with Hydra’s number two on their side, ATF should aim for a checkmate. And I got desperate. _I wanted out._ When you showed up again, _relentless_ , I saw you as my… opening.”

 

“Oh?” Whatever sympathy he had for Barnes just vanished into thin air. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if the words ‘use me’ are tattooed on my forehead or something. Because you aren’t the first one, buddy.”

 

“I’m sorry – please, I know. I was desperate –”

 

“You get desperate quite often, don’t you?” That’s uncalled for. That’s totally uncalled for, and Tony feels a stab through his heart when he notices how bad Barnes is shaking again. Tony glances at the door, making sure the guards are still there. Just in case.

 

“I was left in the lurch for a while. No contact, no news from the topside. You were… strategically positioned to relay my message to the people who matter. The cops, the Feds, I don’t care anymore. And then, communication resumed. I had a new handler. _Steve_ , God, of all people. And it suddenly became clear to me, what I did was… was extremely selfish. I told Steve about you, and he… I think if we were meeting face to face he would’ve socked me one in the jaw. He forbade me from contacting you. So, I stopped.”


	77. Chapter 77

That must be right after Barnes slipped him a sample of the drugs. Barnes went radio silence after that, but it wasn’t like Tony was in any hurry to shake hands with him or Rumlow either.

 

Barnes seems to have read his mind. “That drug sample I gave you is a key evidence. I assume you turned it over to the cops?”

 

“… Yeah. Gave it to Steve. Just yesterday, I got a Fed threatening to charge me with committing crime against public justice.”

 

Then, Barnes looks down in his lap again. “Are you all right?”

 

“… I’m not going to jail, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“I know I did… things. I hurt you. I _assaulted_ you, and I… can’t live it down. I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t… just words, I mean, I can’t fix it –”

 

“You really are a carbon copy of Steve, aren’t you?” It’s uncanny. He takes Barnes’ cup of water, “Here.”

 

“No, please, just… leave it there.”

 

And he sees why. Barnes’ other hand – the one intubated and currently balling a corner of his blanket – is quaking like crazy. Enough to warrant a doctor’s visit… so, Tony sets ahead to the door, perhaps too abruptly, and Barnes flinches so hard, the bed creaks, and he raises his good arm to shield his face –

 

“Barnes, hey,” Tony immediately withdraws from him, both arms raised placatingly before him. “Hey, it’s OK.”

 

“… Sorry –”

 

“You did the best you could.” It sure sounds magnanimous when he says it like this. “It’s the best we can hope for.” It’s like dancing on eggshells, and he can’t find it in him to do unto Barnes what he’s set out to do – blame, point fingers – _burn_ him so he can finally close this chapter and _move on._

Feeling suddenly wearier, he leans against the wall, and folds his arms across his chest. “What’s next, then? Other than a lifetime of therapy, I mean.” There it is. That tweak on Barnes’ lips that reminds Tony of Steve’s memento from the War, that takes years off his tear-streaked face. “What d’you want to do next? A cross-country driving trip? Spend a year on a houseboat off the coast of the Bahamas?”

 

“… I don’t know. What about you?”

 

“What about me?”

 

“You and Steve. How long have you been together?”

 

“… Coming to a year? We’re not really keeping track.”

 

“Yeah? That’s good. That’s good, I’m really happy for you.” And Barnes looks it. The warmest smile he ever has on, and Tony can’t help but bask in that, and hope that this peace, this respite, will last.

 

There’s a knock on the door. Tony gets it, and Steve’s back, one hand holding a steaming paper cup, the other a clear folder.

 

“Hey,” Barnes greets, voice a bit gruff despite all the water he chugged.

 

“Forensics came back with the chem analyses. The drugs from the Garage are a match with the sample Tony provided. Chock full of SB909.”

 

“It’s the same recipe,” Barnes concurs. He sits straighter in his bed. “Before Shaw Industries acquired Alchemax, the patent was owned by some shoddy scientists – what I hear, who’d lost their tenure at some universities. They took their work underground. This… SB909 you’re talking about? They wanted to build a spin-off company around it, but couldn’t convince the banks, couldn’t secure grants for capital. Until someone hooked them up with the org. In return for money and cheap chemical precursors, they would synthesise drugs for the org at no cost.”

 

“And because you sell it to the ultra-rich,” Steve pulls the chair away from the bed, somewhere in between where Tony is standing and Barnes’ bed. “They’ll want to keep mum about the business. Got a reputation to uphold. So, nobody talks.”

 

“The chemists laced the drugs with SB909.”

 

“It’s not clinically tested.”

 

“No,” Barnes shakes his head. “This _is_ the clinical trial.”

 

Bingo. That’s his story, wrapped up in a bow. Tony itches for his laptop, itches to set all these down in print. ATF IOI went undercover for _ten years,_ led an underground drug bust – the collapse of an empire – and shed light on a large-scale human experiment of an untested anti-aging agent. Justice prevails. In the end, _justice prevails._

 

A minute of silence for Hydra.

 

The ward literally comes to a standstill, and he realises Steve and Barnes have just… trailed off. Stopped talking. Not even looking at each other.

 

“I’m uh,” he clears his throat. It's time for him to tap out. “I’m gonna get some coffee. I’ll wait for you in the park, Steve.”

 

“… Sure.”

 

“OK.” One hand stilled on the knob, Tony looks back at the bed. He can say at least one more thing to Barnes, and means it. “Take care.”


	78. Chapter 78

It’s getting a little chilly in the evening. He hasn’t that many layers on, but he’ll make do. He wraps his fingers around a fresh cup of coffee, something cheap that he buys from that vending machine behind the pillar. Arabica, he thinks. He sits on the park bench, in the hospital’s northern yard that overlooks the main street. He stretches his limbs in every way imaginable, and then thumbs through the first few pages of the notebook he brings for this visit.

 

Every piece of them, pristine. Not a word written down. Well, chop chop, right? The sooner he puts pen to paper the better. Every second passes he risks misremembering facts, forgetting details. He didn’t record their conversation – didn’t think those armed guards would take kindly to that. Four months ago, when ignorance was still blissful, when he decided he’d jump headfirst into the fray, he thought, no matter the price, this would be worth it. That this victory will be the sweetest, so sweet it masks the pain.

 

Boy, he had _no idea._

 

He wants to go home. That’s what he feels like doing next. He wants to go back to his own place, to sleep in his own bed. Maybe some beer, a good slice of pizza and cable surf. Maybe call Rhodey if it’s still not too late. Apologise. Explains what he’s been up to, assures that he’s safe. Maybe cry a little in a rambling of admissions that Rhodey’s right. This isn’t exactly the smartest and the rightest thing to do. And Pepper. Pepper and Happy, happily married in their family home in New York. Mr and Mrs Potts’ invitation to dinner still stands, right? Guess it’s time to take them up on the offer after all. No more excuses.

 

Maybe he’ll even quit his job. Move out of Sacramento.

 

The grass nearby crunches as someone – Steve, he recognises this gait – approaches. Steve takes the empty spot on the same bench – on the farthest end – as they both admire the heroic attempt of a three-year-old tossing Frisbee for his Labrador to retrieve.

 

“Is he gonna be OK?” Tony asks first. The puppy just tackled the kid in its enthusiasm to return the disc.

 

“We’ll make sure he gets all the help he needs.”

 

“Won’t Hydra come after him?”

 

“We got that covered. He may not look it, but he took seven point-twenty-two to the chest and stomach, and a slash to his arm. Everyone saw him go down at the Garage. With careful interventions, spread the right word on the street, Bucky Barnes is dead for all intents and purposes. That aside, there’s a long road of recovery ahead of him. Not gonna be easy.”

 

“OK. That’s…” It’s not _good,_ and he’s not going to lie.

 

Steve crosses his ankles, and says slowly, “What about us?” He turns slightly to face Tony. “Where do we go from here?”

 

“I honestly don’t know, Steve. I don’t know how to… how to touch you, ‘cause I can’t tell if I’m hurting you or not. I want to stay. I _will_ stay, but not for us. I’ll stay for you. Want to make sure you’re OK, that you’re safe. But, I think I’ll make this worse if I do –

 

“I don’t blame you. I’ve never.”

 

“… If keeping you safe means locking you up and throwing the keys away, what does that make me? I think I see it, Steve. I’ve my own sets of… issues. _I’m_ _holding us back._ And it’s not fair. To you. To us.”

 

Steve nods. “You wanna take a break?”

 

They can only avoid it for so long. “Yeah,” Tony sighs. “Yeah, I think we should. Steve, I never meant to hurt you.”

 

“Me, too. Doesn’t change the fact that we did, Tony. So yeah, maybe a breather will do us some good. OK?”

 

“OK.” They can do this. They’ll be fine. He shifts his half-drunk coffee cup aside and scoots closer to Steve, their thighs almost touching, but not really. And Steve leans over. “If you need anything, if I can help, just call. I’ll be there,” he whispers, and his nose brushes against Tony’s. His breath, also subtly laced with Arabica ghosts over Tony’s cheek. He’s so close Tony can count his lashes.

 

Just one last time, they lose themselves in the kiss. Chaste, bitter... and liberating all the same.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he smirks, and runs his thumb along the side of Steve’s face.

 

“Pot, kettle.”

 

“Ass.”

 

It’s not over. Not yet, not really. It’s more of a comma than a period, or the second installment of a trilogy. Watching Steve bask in the evening sun in grace and peace, an easy smile playing on his lips… it’s worth it. All the good and ugly between them, what they had and shared – shattered and forged anew – he’ll take it. It’s all worth holding on to. So yeah, if it means letting go so Steve could rise and live again, if this is how loving Steve Rogers is gonna be, he’s willing.

 

It’s worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys? 
> 
> *brings out virtual champagne bottles and glasses*
> 
> We made it! We ran the length of the track, we finished the marathon, tore through the ribbon! IT'S OVER! Cheers! I want to express my heartfelt thank you and gratitude and everything nice, for your support, and feedback and patience. You guys keep this series going, and I thoroughly enjoyed reading the feedback you dropped along the way. You guys help me grow as a writer, and a human being. So, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!
> 
> The last two chapters are meant for: 1) the timeline, and 2) a stinger chapter. 
> 
> I love you guys. LOVE YOU!


	79. Timeline

_1997_

Steve Rogers and James Barnes, age 19, enlist in the United States Army (USA). Their first tour is to Kosovo. Steve serves with the 3rd Squadron, 4th Cavalry, of the 2nd Infantry Division. Bucky serves with the 3rd Squadron, 7th Cavalry, 2nd Infantry Division.

 

_2002_

Steve and Bucky’s contracts end, and they go their separate ways. Steve keeps war mementos to remember Bucky and his military days by. He then joins Maria Hill’s company, N&N. Maria advises him to think about his career, and he joins the police school, and after that, Sacramento Police Department (SPD), starting out as a police officer.

 

Bucky joins the Industry Operations Investigator Basic Training (IOIBT), a gruelling 10-week programme run by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF). It is designed to train newly-hired industry operations investigators (IOI) in the fundamentals of effective inspections of firearms and explosives licensees and permittees, in addition to supporting other Federal, State and local law enforcement agencies.

 

_2007_

Bucky joins Hydra as an undercover operative.

 

_2012_

Over the years, Steve and Bucky progress up their respective ranks. Steve earns his stripes as a Lieutenant, and the respect of his subordinates, most notably Sam Wilson. Bucky gets promoted into the coveted inner ring of Hydra.

 

During the 5th BDSM convention hosted by N&N, Hydra shows up to peddle their drugs. Eventually, Bucky asks the house for an endurance challenge. Bucky represents Hydra, and Steve – who is there to do Maria a favour on security – represents N&N. Unwilling to play on Bucky’s terms, Steve loses, and Bucky tries to collect Steve’s Sub as his prize. But, Steve offers to go instead, and promises to stay with Bucky for two weeks instead of one, as agreed upon earlier.  

 

During his stay with Hydra, Steve suffers. Bucky does the best he can to minimise Steve’s contact with other members (brands Steve with a star like his own, or locks Steve up in a secluded room in his private apartment). But, he’s pressured to give in to some unsavoury requests, considering that he needs to protect his identity and cannot afford to lose popularity. These events will continue to torment Bucky.

 

After Steve is returned to Maria and recovers from his injuries, he returns to active duty with the SPD. He also leaves the BDSM scene indefinitely.

 

_2016_

Steve meets Tony Stark, a no-name reporter from Sacramento Bee, who wishes to write a column about the BDSM community. They agree to engage temporarily in a D/s relationship, so Tony can use his first-hand experience to write his book and articles. While negotiating a book deal with Obadiah Stane at a private coffee house (unknowingly to them, one of Hydra’s base of operations), SPD is also staking out the place. Bucky drugs the coffee that Obadiah ordered for Tony, hoping to bait SPD into arresting Obadiah and leaving the coffee house for good. The plan works, although Obadiah then loses his family, company and most of his clients’ trusts.

 

Few months after, Steve and Tony agree to commit to a relationship, and Steve registers them for the next N&N’s BDSM convention. Tony learns about Steve’s sexual and physical assault in the hands of Hydra in 2012, and vows to avenge Steve.

 

Tony contacts ex-Hydra members (Crimson Dynamo, Whiplash) for information on Bucky. He also learns that Hydra is actually an underground drug syndicate. Somehow, words spread and Brock Rumlow, an overly-ambitious Hydra member finds out about Tony’s snooping. Eager to dethrone Bucky as Hydra number two, he frames Obadiah Stane/Bucky by ordering low-level gangsters to assault Tony in the alley. Rumlow’s strategy almost works, and Bucky, threatened by the power struggle within the organisation and troubled by a profound sense of identity loss, asks for an extraction. Unfortunately, his handler Thaddeus Ross, suddenly passes away, causing delays in Bucky’s extraction.

 

Towards the end of the year, Steve and Tony successfully stage their first BDSM scene together at the convention. Steve prepares for his transfer to the ATF (field office in Los Angeles), and Tony becomes an investigative journalist with the Bee.

 

_Late 2016 to 2017_

Bucky’s attempts to get himself extracted fall on deaf ears. Desperate, he contacts Tony, who is still pursuing the 2012 convention case. He willingly divulges information about Hydra, hoping that Tony will relay this to the authorities and put more pressure on ATF to wrap up operation as soon as possible. Tony learns that the drugs that Hydra circulate contain SB909, a synthetic compound with anti-aging properties, which patent is currently held by Alchemax, a pharmaceutical company recently acquired by Shaw Industries. A previous acquaintance, Ezekiel Stane – later on revealed to be the son of Obadiah Stane – is the CEO of Alchemax.

 

Steve is assigned as Case Officer to Bucky’s operation. Upon establishing contact with Bucky, he learns that Bucky has been feeding information to Tony. This is clearly against protocols, and he orders Bucky to stop implicating bystanders in the operation. Although Steve now realises that the atrocities he suffered in Bucky’s hands are out of necessities, he could not quite convince himself to go through with the operation, and is forced to keep copies of Bucky’s diary by his side to remind him of his duties.

 

Rumlow notices that Hydra’s activities are constantly being quelled ever since Tony shows up, and mistakenly suspects that Tony is a police informant, when it is really due to Steve/ATF re-establishing contact with Bucky. Rumlow tries to persuade Bucky to use Ezekiel, instead of Tony to connect Hydra to their customer base. Bucky refuses as Ezekiel is protected by Sebastian Shaw, CEO and owner of Shaw Industries. Ironically, ATF’s string of success forces Hydra to halt all activities and communications. Bucky decides to not take any chances and lie low, cutting off communications with Steve and ATF.

 

Unhappy with this turn of events, Rumlow baits Tony to the coffee house’s warehouse on the pretext of an injured Bucky, intending to torture an admission out of Tony for being a spy. Steve follows Tony to the coffee house, assuming that he would be able to meet Bucky face-to-face and re-establish contact. Under extreme and traumatic circumstances, Steve and Bucky manage to quickly hash out a plan that will terminate Hydra’s next transaction, and secure Bucky’s extraction.

 

Operation Hydra is successful. Hydra is crippled with the seizing of their largest shipment of drugs, and arrest of Hydra’s top operatives, Bucky and Rumlow. The ATF stages Bucky’s death at the Old Sacramento Garage where the drug transaction takes place, thus granting Bucky a permanent exit from the operation. As this most recent batch of drugs also contains SB909, ATF has sufficient evidence to implicate Alchemax as Hydra’s accomplice.

 

Steve and Tony part ways amicably after paying Bucky a visit at Mercy General Hospital.


	80. Stinger

Starbucks has done it again. The Evolution Fresh series is really something else, isn’t it? Tony slurps down his Defense Up! smoothie and relishes the way a harem of flavours – pineapple, mango, acerola cheery – is doing all sorts of things to his tongue. Delish. He desperately needs the boost of vitamin C, having just recovered from a bout of cold. Which does not work, Rhodey told him last night. Genius said pre-empting cold with citruses have never worked, and will _not_ work. One really must wonder, with all that passionate hating on limes and oranges, what does Rhodey have against them.

 

Anyway, here he is on a Starbucks sofa, sequestered in a dimly lighted corner, sitting at an angle acute enough to hide his face from the rest of the café.

 

Someone’s left their dailies on the coffee table. It’s not Sacramento Bee’s, so he doesn’t feel guilty smudging the inks with condensation-soaked finger pads. Nothing catches his fancy, until he reaches page three:

 

_Accused accomplice in illicit drug manufacturing - Alchemax CEO pleaded innocence._

It must have been at least four months since Barnes’ extraction from Hydra. Time flies.

 

By the way, has Tony mentioned what happened to the series of articles based on Operation Hydra? The first draft was _binned_ without so much as a glance at the title, because boss-man was so fed-up with his chronic absence and lack of professionalism, that _nothing_ short of a Pulitzer Prize-worthy story could save him from getting fired. It was that bad, and he knew it, so he muttered his thanks and left the office. That midnight, he curled up in his seat, barricaded by his cubicle because there was nothing left to go home to. Then, half an hour into his slumber, he looked up from his pillow of forearms and thought he saw _Kim Jong Un_ singing praises to his manuscript. It was a lovely dream.

 

And then, it wasn’t. Once lucid enough to talk shop with the boss and a panel of the Bee’s bigwigs, he finally got his story approved. The original manuscript remained binned, of course. They figured _one_ publication wouldn’t do it justice. “We’ll run it as a series for a month, and maybe try to negotiate a book deal for it. What do you think, Stark? You up for it?”  

 

He’s like seventy percent done with his book, and he saves those newspaper cut-outs in a clear folder stowed somewhere in a box. A decade-long dream finally comes true… to see his name under the headlines. But, how cruel life can be… for there is no glory in his conquests.

 

Today is special, though. It almost feels natural to order his smoothie at the counter and then take command of this specific sofa, and peruse whatever reading material made available to while away the time, and the jitters.

 

And then, a shadow falls over the article he is reading. Tony looks up from his papers, annoyed, and sees a man standing before him, a mere silhouette against the door and afternoon glare. The man asks, “Is this chair taken?” and Tony shakes his head.

 

Today is special to him, because exactly one year ago, he cold-called some guy whose contact details he procured from some forums, to ask for a favour. It was good business, they even had a goddamn contract drafted. It should’ve ended _then,_ it was only a month-long commitment. It should’ve, but it didn’t.

 

And it hasn’t.

 

“I see you’re unaccompanied,” Steve Rogers comments airily, a small smile gracing his somewhat chapped lips.

 

“No. I’m uh, waiting for someone.”

 

“Me, too. I’ve a good feeling I’ll bump into him today. Right here, right now.”

 

“Interesting,” Tony slurps down more ice. “Have you found him?”

 

“… I think so. Have you found yours?”

 

In his haste, Tony has foolishly placed his smoothie on his competitor’s newspaper. Dang thing is now soggy through and through. “I want to say,” he begins slowly, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough.” He has to do this right. He holds his gaze on Steve, and just… marvels at the sight. Steve has regained all the pounds he lost earlier this year, and his eyes are alight with life. He holds himself with dignified ease, and does not hurry Tony even as he trails off his speech. “I’m sorry, that in my… _obsession_ to help you, I’d hurt you. I can’t change what’d happened, and it won’t do us good if we lose ourselves in what-ifs. I guess, what I really want to say is – and you’re not obliged to play ball with me, Steve,” he adds quickly, but Steve still watches him quietly, somewhat amused, if at all. “Clean slate is… is crap, and it invalidates us, but, I want to give us another try. Make do with what we have, and build – _rebuild_ – something more for both of us.”

 

Maybe Steve will launch into his own sappy monologue. Then, he says, “I’ve missed you, Tony.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony pushes away the stack of papier mache from his smoothie. “Me, too.”

 

“How about dinner?”

 

“Sounds good.” He has a car. They can go _anywhere._ “There’s a good steakhouse just two blocks down.”

 

“I cooked, though. Nothing fancy, but –”

 

“You cooked? For two?”

 

“Yeah. I’m here to bring you home, Tony.” Oh God, how he misses this. “If you’ll still have me.”

 

_He’s going home._

 

* * *

 

 

**Tony Stark and Steve Rogers will return in Keeper 3: Deliverance.**


End file.
